Innominata
by Liluri
Summary: There once was a girl filled with ire, who mistakenly played with fire. As her whole life inflamed, all that seemed to remain, were the embers of her desire.
1. prologue

It was so cold.

Letting go of the steering wheel, I slowly stretched my left arm out the open window. The air stung my skin and pierced my lungs with every breath I drew in, but it didn't register in my mind. Inside, I felt nothing.

The overcast sky dusted the towering pine trees in gray as I drove past, a lonely two way road walled by thick forest and spattered with melting frost. I could feel the tires skid as they flew over icy patches, and pressed my foot on the gas even harder. Time was a luxury I couldn't afford. This pit in my stomach only coiled tighter as the minutes slid by, slick and constricting in my throat to the point that I could barely breathe. Perhaps that was why the frigid air wasn't as painful as it should be.

As I curved around a bend, I saw the bridge.

I directed the car off the road and slowly creeped up to the edge of the now defunct railroad path. Frost and leaves crunched under my boots as I stepped out, surveying the silence. Aside from my low breathing, the air around me was deathly still. Throwing the car keys into the passenger's seat, I dug into my pockets and tossed my phone in as well. I shoved my hands into the pockets of my jacket and kicked the car door closed. If I wanted to leave now, I'd have to walk twenty miles to the nearest gas station. But I knew that wasn't going to happen. My heart was pounding in my ears as I made my way towards the bridge.

It was an old stone viaduct over the Bowery river, the slate arches darkened by moss and age. Roughly three hundred feet long, wide enough for a freight train to pass through, and a thirty foot drop from the water. Far enough for an experienced swimmer to feel exhilaration. Far enough for the others to fear.

A bird shot out from the bushes in front of me, wings flapping wildly. As it flew past I screamed and fell back, falling hard on my hip. Perching itself on the edge of the bridge, it turned its head and eyed me curiously. From the look of its dull ebony body and beady little eyes, I was being spied on by a crow. "Aren't you supposed to be gone by now?" I hissed, knocking the dirt and leaves off my jeans. Reaching into my back pocket, I pulled out a small orange medicine bottle that was hiding under my jacket. It was cracked and the top was off, and a look under my leg revealed half its contents were spilled into the dirt.

"Whatever," I spat, tilting my head back and downing the remaining pills left in the bottle. I gagged and coughed furiously, eyes watering as I forced the bitter tablets down. Tossing the broken bottle aside, I stumbled into a standing position and half limped to the middle of the bridge. Modernity clashed with antiquity as rusty metal gates were affixed to the viaduct's stony sides, graffitied signs in bold letters stating "NO DIVING" and "WARNING: STRONG CURRENT" clung like spiders to their iron webs. A section of the gate was cut and bent out in a small gap for teenagers to use the bridge in the summer. The same one I used, back when the summers were strawberry milkshakes and counting the days from school. Summer was a ghost. So was I.

Climbing through the gate onto the thick pitched edge, I perched myself and swung my legs back and forth against the frigid stone wall. Glancing down, I could see the small white crests of water as it ran around the viaduct's pillars. Likely from the lack of food and sleep, the pills were already beginning to take effect. Vertigo swam over my vision and I leaned back, eyes rolling upward to the grey skies.

A gust broke through the trees, biting my cheeks as it brushed past. My teeth clenched tight, stomach contorting from the cold, the fear, the anticipation. The anticipation of relief. My heart was so heavy. I closed my eyes, and hot tears that were pooling in them ran down my face.

"I'm sorry," I forced out, feeling my shoulders start to shake. Drawing in a deep, painful breath of icy air, I finally let out the sob hanging in my chest.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! oh, God-" Rocking back and forth, eyes blurry and nose beginning to drip, I covered my face and could feel the lightness in my head. I was so small. I was so empty. The cold no longer existed, I could feel my heart pounding and my mind swirling. Suddenly my stomach lurched and I dry heaved, eyes cracking open to black spots passing by in my vision - or were those more crows? My cheeks was so hot, the blood rushing to my face was making my scarf tight and itchy. I tried to tug off my scarf, but my fingers merely clawed listlessly. My veins were saturated and the drugs were thickly clouding my mind. Everything was too much. It was too much to coordinate physically, mentally… emotionally. Casting a long look towards what lay before me, I saw the pines gently swaying in the wind, the river rippling like a thousand dark ribbons carried off to where they must go. Where I must go. I closed my eyes and exhaled.

I was gone before I even hit the water.

* * *

Disclaimer: Nolanverse and DC characters/settings are not mine. Everything that has nothing to do with anything belongs to me.


	2. chapter o1

Disclaimer: Nolanverse and DC characters/settings are not mine. I hope you are having a fantastic Friday night, dear reader.

* * *

_Two Years Later _

"Oh, Archie…" Tears leaked freely from the corners of the frail woman's eyes, the white wisps of hair pulled into a bun on her head swayed back and forth as she trembled and shook. Whether it be from Parkinson's or her husband's death, or both, it was distracting. I plucked a fresh tissue from the box behind the desk, trying to kill the grimace on my face as I chased her jerking hand around to hand it to her. When she finally snatched it, she ended up blowing her nose on her forearm, hand still gripping the tissue.

Blasphemous as it was, I hated Fridays.

"I'm so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Whitaker." I said flatly. It was probably the use of 'Mrs' or she caught a second wind, and started blubbering little tiny sobs all over again. Truthfully it was a heartbreaking sight, but after an entire lifetime of seeing people sobbing, screaming, wailing, and puking from the sheer exhaustion of grief, this was an arrangement I could easily handle. Picking up the heavy ballpoint pen, "Rothschild Funeral Home" engraved neatly on the barrel, I waited for her to calm down. When her sobs finally subsided, I clicked the pen and pressed it to the first of a thin packet of papers.

"Tell me about your husband, Archie."

"Oh... that would take hours," She gave a shaky wave of her hand, and the slightest of smiles crept on her face. "He was a wonderful man… We traveled the world together. No kids, we were each other's children."

I nodded, scribbling down '_No children_'. Underlined several times.

"What did he do for work?" I pried gently, trying to make my way down the death certificate list of information needed as fast as possible. I couldn't lie, working with families was not my strong suit. This was the last place I wanted to be, stuck in the arrangement office. Being fully aware that my brother was in the in the back of the building, embalming away in complete peace and quiet, was enough to make me want to stab my eyes out with the twenty dollar pen in my hand.

"He was a carpenter, oh, everything he made was so lovely." Mrs. Whitaker crooned, eyes filling up with tears again. Taking that cue, I pulled out the casket selection folder and quickly flipped to the wood caskets section. "Well, then I think you'd love this." I handed over the folder for her to see the picture. "The Legacy. Beautiful cherry wood, high gloss and velvet interior."

"It's…" Adjusting the thick spectacles on her nose, she cleared her throat. "Gorgeous," I finished her sentence, pulling a closed lipped smile. "It's one of the best we offer."

After a long pause, she placed a quivering hand on the photograph of the casket, sighing heavily. Which probably meant she couldn't afford it. "Mrs. Whitaker," I began, "If you're thinking about the price, I'd have no problem knocking it down-"

"That's not what I'm thinking, dear."

I paused, clicking the pen a couple of times and then backtracking. "Well… if you're more interested in metal caskets, I'd be glad to show them to you as well." She shook her head, lifting her gaze to give me what almost seemed like a patronizing look. Shifting uncomfortably, I considered a screaming trio of bickering siblings would be a better situation to deal with at the moment.

A ghost of a smile whisked across her face. "Have you ever been in love, Miss Rothschild?"

The question was so out of left field I blanked out. "I-I'm sorry, what?"

Her head gently bobbed back and forth, eyes gazing thoughtfully. "I was seventeen when I met my Archie. I knew, I knew when I first met him that he and I were going to be… " Her voice trailed off, before clearing her throat again. "Next Thursday was going to be his seventieth birthday. We were planning a three day trip out of the city to go hiking."

I couldn't help myself. "Is that really safe for you?"

Reaching out, she placed her hand on mine. The papers made a slight shifting noise from the jittering movement. "How old are you, dear?"

This questionnaire was supposed to be happening in the opposite direction. "Um, twenty four." I replied, shifting my gaze in hopes no one would walk in on this moment. Mrs. Whitaker raised a brow.

"Pardon if I'm being forward, but... you should be high tailing it while you're young. Then, when you are in my shoes... you will know what it feels like to have to choose which fancy box to put away the love of your life."

* * *

I stormed into the preparation room, fuming. Samuel was standing over Mr. Archie Whitaker, trocar in hand and a bottle of cavity fluid in the other. His mask and hair net obscured most of his face, but his eyes followed me.

"If you ask me how it went, I will throttle you." I threatened, unbuttoning my coat and shrugging it off. Three hours. Just to fill out a few pages of information, and since I made the arrangements, I was going to be with Mrs. Whitaker for the whole week until the burial. I pulled on a couple of nitrile gloves and took a deep breath, briefly closing my eyes. The prep room was where my area of expertise was, and I needed to take a moment in my territory to clear my thoughts.

Samuel pulled down his mask, eyeing me. "You're going to have to go back out to the chapel area, you know." He inclined his head. "I'm fine back here."

"Well I'm not fine out _there_." I snapped, taking a look at the sign in sheet, reading the new name. 'Williams, Timothy'. "There's a new case?" I glanced up to him. "And did you bother to tell me?"

"It's a county case from Arkham. He's in the cooler." Samuel pulled the mask back over his face. He unscrewed the bottle of fluid, blinking furiously from the fumes. As much as he claimed to enjoy embalming, I knew it wasn't what he did best.

I suppressed a growl. "Can you just go out there and I'll take over from here? Mom and Dad won't be back till tomorrow afternoon, I promise I won't say anything."

Sam shook his head, ignoring me. Complying to Dad's wishes like the perfect child, as always. I had to fight from stomping like a six year old over to the cooler, opening it and glancing inside. The county burials of Gotham, a nice way of saying 'pauper's grave' cases, were contracted with Rothschild, so the cooler was always occupied with some poor indigent with no family to name, or a criminal that a family refused to acknowledge. Even the lesser of society was guaranteed a decent burial, despite the protests of many in Gotham.

"Timothy Williams," I read the label to myself, before zipping open the disaster pouch.

And it was a disaster.

He couldn't have been older than thirty, and his swollen features only made him look more childish. There were multiple bruises on the front and sides of his head, deep scratches on his ruddy cheeks, and a crooked nose and a split lip only added to the charm of obvious violence. I spun on my heels, furious enough to ignore the cavity fluid Sam was drizzling onto the embalming table as he was working.

"Why… did you allow this man to come onto our premises?" I fumed. "There are obvious signs of trauma, but he wasn't sent to the medical examiner's to rule out cause of foul play. Luckily for Arkham, he has no one to claim him. What kind of dirty shit are you trying to get us into?" I snapped. Sam paused, putting the bottle of chemical down and pulling down his mask to give his full look of judgement.

"It's a _county burial_ Freddie, do you want to fill out the extra paperwork just to send him to the M.E. and have him sent back? Autopsy cases are so difficult to work with."

My nostrils flared in response to his whining. "Do you want to end up on the front page of The Gotham Times? As the funeral home that made a devil pact with Arkham to cover it's dirty work?" I mocked. Sam let out a heavy sigh, shoulders sagging. "Look, the doctors at Arkham have never given us any problems with signing the death certificates."

"Oh, I don't have anything against Arkham." Raising both gloved hands in the air, I frowned in mock accusation. "I _do_ have something against three weird cases f_rom Arkham_ in the last month, including that ex mobster who obviously had his eyes nearly scratched out. The doctor had no problem calling it 'bacterial meningitis'. And when do we always accept these cases without question? When _you're_ working in the back."

"Okay, fine." Sam ripped the mask off from under his chin, furiously snatching at the plastic apron tied around his waist. "I'm going to the front for the rest of the day. When Dad gets back, we'll have a talk. I'll stay out of the prep room, and you can take responsibility for everything that happens back here."

I folded my arms. "Fine with me," I agreed flatly.

"That also means you're going to have to deal with this Williams guy. There's another removal to be made from Arkham anyways. Go with James and Uncle Ralph, and have a talk with one of the supervisors." He pulled his gloves off with a loud snap and tossed them in the hazardous waste box. "I'm sure if you give them the same treatment you give me, there won't be any more problems in the future."

_Go back to Arkham._ I paused, giving him the briefest of glances before turning around to zip up Mr. William's disaster pouch. My look didn't go unnoticed. Sam paused, teeth clenching and eyes widening. "Oh.. actually, Freddie, I'll go if you want-"

I shook my head. "No, you're right. It's my responsibility. I'll go."

"Are you sure? Three guys make a better removal team." He offered weakly. I scoffed, rolling my eyes.

"No offense Sam, but you suck at removals. I'll be okay."

_Of course I'd be okay._

* * *

Being squeezed between two burly men in a darkly tinted black van, on the way to the city's largest mental institution, wasn't exactly what I would've called an ideal evening trip. James, a semi-recent addition to Rothschild as a funeral attendant, had a thickly muscled arm wrapped around my shoulders in a vain attempt to allow his large body to accommodate a passenger's seat for an extra person. Having to wear a suit only made matters worse for him.

I pulled a tissue from the box in the glove compartment and mopped the sweat beads accumulating on his bald head. He smiled fondly. "Thank you, Freddie."

"Don't think I'm not mad at you." I warned, turning to shoot a look at Uncle Ralph as well. "You guys saw the bodies before they even left Arkham, and you _still_ brought them back to the funeral home."

Uncle Ralph merely 'harrumphed', keeping his eyes on the road. "Don't expect me to say sorry. Thirty years I've worked with your father, and only two times I ever had to apologize for something. Once for marrying your aunt, and twice for convincing your father to allow a Falcone funeral."

I shook my head silently. He caught wind of it out of the corner of his eye, and cleared his throat to add on to his point. "You think you know everything now Freddie, that stirring up trouble with Arkham is gonna stop whatever you don't like. But sometimes you gotta let things do as they do."

Not willing to dignify his attempt at a poetic excuse with an answer, I merely leaned against James's arm and listened to the jazz on the radio.

By the time we got there, dusk was settling and sprayed warm colors across the sky. Arkham's tall, imposing castle of an institution seemed even darker with the sun setting behind it. My heart beat furiously at the sight, and I hated myself for it. We pulled up to the reinforced gate, Uncle Ralph lowering the car window and nodding to the guard sitting in the tower near the entrance.

"Evening, Joe." Uncle Ralph greeted casually. The guard tipped his head in acknowledgement, scratching his mustache as his eyes wandered over to me. "Is that Freddie?" Joe asked, squinting his eyes.

Stoically, I leaned forward and waved. "Hey Joe, long time no see."

"I hope this doesn't mean we got an inmate too big to handle for just the two guys you got with you," Joe gave a rough laugh. Uncle Ralph shook his head as Joe pressed the button to let us in, buzzing loudly as the gates creaked open. The parking lot was nearly empty as we drove to the back of the asylum, near a pair of double doors leading into Arkham. I jumped out as soon as Uncle Ralph parked, massaging my numb right leg.

"Freddie, go in and find whoever you need to talk to." James straightened out his coat, smoothing down the wrinkles. "Ralph and I will take care of the removal."

"Will you promise me you won't sign for anything if it looks fishy?" I asked, giving a good critical eye. James shook his head, exhaling an exasperated sigh. "Sure, Freddie." Adjusting the name tag on my lapel, I opened the door and went in.

* * *

I felt like I was here just yesterday. I hated the blanched linoleum flooring. I hated the lemony smell of disinfectant and floor cleaner. My feet remembered the way to the morgue, which was another double doored entrance, but with a keypad to access inside. I knocked loudly, stood back, and waited.

And waited.

Knocking again, I could already hear the squeaky wheels of the removal cot James and Uncle Ralph were bringing in down the hall. This was a waste of time. They came around the corner with the cot in between them, James raising his brows as he saw me. "Sorry, I forgot to give you the password to get in." James said, giving a slightly apologetic look.

"It doesn't really matter, nobody is in there to answer questions anyways." I replied, tapping my foot on the tile impatiently. "Well it's after five, most people would have already left for the day." He offered. That wasn't good enough.

"I'll go see if I can find someone somewhere else, this is stupid." I growled, walking past them towards the elevator. My head was pounding from the ridiculously long arrangement earlier, Sam's overly compliant attitude, and this general lack of concern over basic protocol. Typical of Arkham. If I could burn it to the ground, I would.

I was breaking in the first weekend at my new apartment with a full bottle of wine tonight.

On the second floor, the halls were just as vacated. Glancing down door after door, I wandered around in search of someone, anyone, who I could talk to. Being here was too much. I could feel my hands start to tremble as I neared the Involuntary Commitment ward, I recognized it's entrance from the painting of a stream running through a valley hanging on the wall.

_Heavy lungs and warm hands on my face, swathed in a blanket in the icy dirt-_

_Scratching, clawing, screaming, "Put me back, please!"-_

"Are you looking for something?"

At the sound of a human voice in the void, my heart leapt and I spun around to see him.

Tall, thin, and sweater vest was what I first took in. He stood eerily still in the middle of the hall, bright blue eyes narrowed behind thin spectacles. His jaw set firmly as he gave me the once over, sizing me up. Slightly shaken from his sudden appearance, I straightened my posture and gave a curt nod. "I am. I need to talk to a supervisor." I said calmly.

"Speaking." He replied, turning fully to me and clasping his clipboard with both hands. I crossed my arms over my chest, realized my defensive position and uncrossed them, deciding for a hands on the hips level of irritation instead.

"I'm Winifred Rothschild, my funeral home is contracted with Arkham in removing county cases from your premises," I began, taking a couple of steps towards him. The stiff supervisor stood his ground, merely raising an eyebrow in acknowledgement.

"I'm familiar with the contract. To what do I owe the pleasure of you meandering down the halls past visitation hours?"

If he thought the flat tone of his voice masked his contempt, he was horribly mistaken. Ire reared it's ugly head in my chest again, and I let out a slow breath. "To be honest," I continued, "I think there's something going on here. We've been getting patients from Arkham who have had signs of obvious physical trauma, and the doctors are refusing to send these cases to the medical examiner for autopsies to determine the true cause of deaths. A forty year old man with multiple contusions on the front and sides of his cranium, and his tongue lodged in his trachea, does not die of 'septicemia'."

"How strange," He said slowly, his gaze adjusting from vaguely looking at my face to meeting my glare. "That does sound like a problem."

I fought to not roll my eyes. _Please_."I think if we get another one of these cases, I'm going to have to address this to the medical examiner myself. I don't care if these people don't have families to bury them. I'm not allowing any more weird stuff to pass under my nose and possibly risk the reputation of my family's business, for the sake of covering the antics of a psychotic staff member. No offense."

He merely smiled, but those blue eyes pierced through me. "None taken. In fact, if you don't mind, allow me a day or two to address this to the Head of Directors of Arkham first. He might be persuaded in advice from someone working inside the psychiatric facility."

Exactly what I was afraid of.

"And how will I know my issues will actually get to him?" I challenged. His brow furrowed, but the smile stayed on his lips. "Miss Rothschild, your sense of trust seems a bit inhibited. That's a _very_ off-putting path towards getting what you want."

"Well... a lifetime of seeing victims with literal stab wounds in the back will do that to you." I replied, feeling the skin near my collar warm slightly in a ghost of shame for my attitude. My hands slightly relaxed to my sides, fiddling a bit.

"That seems fair." He answered, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a card, extending it to me. I took it, glancing it over.

Dr. Jonathan Crane

Director, Clinical Psychopharmacology Program

Inpatient Psychiatry Supervisor

582-9031 ex. 23

"Call tomorrow sometime during our normal hours, and I'll arrange a time for you to come by and we can sort out this matter." He looked down towards the clipboard in his hands. "You'll have to excuse me, I'm running a tight schedule."

"Of course," I said quietly, glancing to him with an attempt of a smile of gratitude. Dr. Crane paused a moment, turning his attention to me again with a focused look.

"In addition, Miss Rothschild, I'd advise you in the meantime to not openly discuss theories that you may have on this facility and it's employees. Defamation is within Arkham's jurisdiction to press lawsuits, and I'm sure you would not wish to divulge your alleged discoveries to the wrong person."

And in that moment I _swore_ I burst a temporal blood vessel.

"Th-thank you," I forced out of my teeth, and I could feel my left eye pulsing slightly. Dr. Crane simply gave a slight nod of his head in reply, half smile still plastered on his face as his eyes flashed me over one last time before shifting to his paperwork as he walked away. I gripped his card in my hand hard enough to bend it, nearly folding it in half as I tucked it into my pocket. While I felt accomplished, I couldn't help but feel the satisfaction of getting my point across was completely sucked dry.

As courteous as he was, Jonathan Crane was an obvious dick.


	3. chapter o2

Disclaimer: Nolanverse and DC characters/settings are not mine. Happy Holidays, dear reader

* * *

No one ever tells you about the strange loneliness that occupies the air of an apartment when you move in alone for the first time. While mostly everything was unpacked and there was enough furniture to prevent the walls from echoing, I still had about five or six boxes I hadn't opened yet and just shoved into the closet to attend to later. I sat on my yard sale brown leather couch in front of the television that still didn't have the cable installed yet, so I kept the imposing silence at bay with a stack of DVDs and Sam's old DVD player.

Dinner was half a french baguette and a triangle of brie, which I ate the both of with a steak knife as I watched 'You've Got Mail'. Again. As Meg Ryan was just closing the bookshop for the last time, I choked back a sob with mouth full of cheese.

"Fughk you Tohm Hangks," I whined, tossing a hard crusty piece of the baguette at Tom Hank's sad villain face and watched it bounce off the television screen. Finally tired of eating, I washed the tart cheese flavor out of my mouth with a swig of red wine from my 'Batesville Casket Company' coffee mug, and pulled my blanket up over my chest. It was only eleven thirty at night, but my eyes were heavy and my head kept lolling to the side as I tried to stay awake until the end of the movie. Sheer exhaustion won.

Then, there was music.

As much as I tried to fight it, I was pulled out of sleep. Rolling over on my side, I saw the television playing the menu home screen of the movie, which meant I didn't fall asleep just five minutes ago. I fumbled for my cell phone on the coffee table, my eyes squinting as it rudely glared light in my face to tell me it was 3:03 a.m.

Putting my phone down, I tuned an ear to my ceiling. A definite rhythm picked up, slow and pensive in the echo of a single violin. I should have been furious that someone could play music loud enough to wake up a tenant on the second floor, but it was so lonely here, I couldn't help but appreciate it.

I picked up the remote and turned the television off to listen in to the melody that grew into an orchestra of strings and what was unmistakably an opera singer, the voice low and hauntingly beautiful. Now that the apartment was in complete darkness, I closed my eyes and drank in the echo of music wafting down from the ceiling into the empty dark spaces of the room. It was probably the bad mixture of wine and this soul crushing symphony, but I could feel the impending doom of melancholy and self pity begin to plot their entrance into my mind.

I needed fresh air.

'Fresh', was a debatable term. Living in one of Gotham's high-rises in east midtown wasn't nearly as shady as living in the lower boroughs near the Narrows, but the constant construction and businesses operating around the clock kept the asphalt and fuel fumes in every Gotham dweller's lungs. I slid the back door open to my balcony and stepped out, shivering as I caught a gust of wind in the middle of the night. The rest of the city didn't seem to know most of it's residents were sleeping, or didn't seem to care. From the eighteenth floor, I could see everything. Taxis creeped down streets, hoping to catch a late night drunkard lost on their way home. Small shadows darted down sidewalks, to and from buildings flashing inviting lights. A police car weaved in between the spare traffic, lights flashing brilliantly and siren crooning.

The apartment above me had their balcony doors open too, the music was much clearer out here. I leaned against the railing and closed my eyes, bracing myself against another blow of mid-Spring air, now losing it's cold but still clinging to the chill. As the chorus of the opera died down to a close, I heard shifting on the concrete above and the creak of what I guessed to be a metal chair. That's what I needed, small patio furniture for my tiny balcony. And maybe a potted plant.

What followed next was much more appropriate for a late night/obscenely early morning outdoors concert for two (as I guessed for now) solitary tenants. It was a piano solo. The notes dragged, hollow and in a manner as if it were for an audience of one. I knew this song. Erik Satie's Gnossienne No. 1, and I hadn't heard this in a long time. In fact, I had never heard someone play this personally besides me, which was rather comforting.

Letting out a deep yawn, I rubbed at my watery eyes and decided to try to go back to sleep. So far, I had the next two days off. But the funeral business was never truly kind enough to it's workers to let us rest properly. I latched the sliding glass door shut and crawled back onto the couch, forgoing my bed in order to fall asleep to the soundscape of apartment dwelling. Anything to break the silence.

Those pleasant melodies distracted me enough to allow me to be serenaded back to sleep, deeply enough that I didn't even dream.

* * *

"Freddie, Dad wants to have that talk."

I gave a shrug as I saw Sam standing in the doorway of the prep room, impeccable suit and all. Pulling down my mask, I licked my chapped lips. "Could you get me some water? I'm not finished cosmetizing and dressing Mr. Alvarez yet."

Sam rolled his eyes and walked down the hall to the water cooler as I dusted finishing powder on Mr Alvarez's cheeks and chin. Many funeral homes made the frequent mistake of applying too much makeup on men, but my father taught me the art of "less is more". At the same time, I was thinking about the appointment I made with Dr. Crane via the Arkham receptionist for six in the evening, after my shift. It was only Monday, and I was getting things done. For the sake of the Rothschild male pride, it was probably something I should mention to Dad and Sam, but if they really wanted me to take more responsibility, as they were constantly nagging me to do, I figured saving all our asses without their noses getting stuck in it would be a good start.

"Okay, I have your water, can you just come out for ten minutes?" Sam reappeared with a paper cup in hand, glowering with impatience. I mirrored his look and stuck out my tongue, which broke his scowl. He merely shook his head, and sighed.

"You're supposed to be the responsible, older sibling Freddie."

"Seven minutes isn't that much older, Miss Crow's Feet." I gestured to an eye as I passed him and took the paper cup, drinking greedily. Out of the corner of my vision I saw him put a hand to his face, slightly panic stricken. As much as he hated to admit it, vanity was his secret vice.

Seeing that Dad's office door was already halfway open, I pushed it wider and walked in to see him working at his desk, contracts in semi-organized piles and his computer screen displaying a casket order. His tie was loosened around his neck, but he was still wearing his coat jacket. He always wore his coat jacket.

"So… " I stood behind a chair, leaning against the back. "We gonna talk?"

He glanced upwards, dark brown eyes behind oval spectacles. Placing down his pen, he scratched his trimmed grey beard and sighed. "Freddie… Sam told me about Friday." His voice was low and soft, as it always was. "Frankly, I knew you were going to try and stop your funeral directing duties, but I wanted to give you a chance."

"A chance?" I gave him a questioning look, half irritated by the disappointment dripping in his voice. He looked to me, down to his contracts, and then to me again in thought. "I've read the comments in the post service reviews by the families." He said, rubbing one of his temples and closing his eyes briefly. "They're very happy by how their loved ones look, when you embalm them, but you yourself make them uncomfortable. I've read how you made Mr. Anderson feel like he was rushed. Or Miss Lakeworth, when you told her that her uncle was," He lifted the edge of a paper and read from it, "lime green."

"Oh my God, _Dad_." I groaned, exasperated. "They're _grieving_, you know how sensitive they get!"

His eyes narrowed. "This is what I'm talking about, Freddie. I know you take pride in your work. And in the prep room you do everything by the book, code compliance and all. I love that. But, I know your heart isn't in what you do."

My mouth dropped open in horror. "That's bullshit, I _loved_ when that Ramirez family last month was able to have an open casket viewing, and that was the motorcyclist who crashed headfirst into a car's windshield!"

"That's not what I mean!" He growled, taking off his glasses and glaring at me. "This isn't purely an art, and those _'cases'_ aren't merely your subjects. Every day you're back here, it's because it's the worst day of someone's life out _there_. Who pays for the flowers? The honorariums? The escorts? You are here because of the families, we are _all_ here because of the families! That's why I want you out there every once in a while. Because you need to be there in the arrangement room, to look them in the eyes, and talk them through their darkest moments. You need to be there in the chapel, as they walk down the aisle and confront the reality of their loved one's death. You need to be there to hold their hands as the casket is lowered into the grave. If you're not there, you'll forget what the most important component of loss is."

I knew he was ending on a vague note to draw a response out of me. "And what's that?" I asked in a hollow tone, eyes averted to the floor.

"Something isn't missed if there's no one yearning for it. Empathy is what brings these families back, Freddie."

He didn't know it, but that stabbed at me like a knife in my heart. "I know that," I said stiffly. He merely harrumphed, unimpressed by my tone of voice.

"Sounds like you really do."

That was it. It was true. It had been two years, and I hadn't moved on. Tears were filling in my eyes, but I just took a deep breath to keep them from spilling over.

"Dad… I just, can't…" Embarrassingly I stress hiccuped, and I had to push the sinking feeling in my gut away. He stood up, walked around the desk and put two large hands on my shoulders.

"I wasn't sure if letting you work here would be a good idea, after you came out of therapy." By the tone of his voice, I wasn't sure if he was talking to me or himself. I merely wrapped my arms around his middle, which was bigger than it used to be.

"You're getting fat." I muffled into his chest. He laughed, and his body jiggled with it. Letting go, I stood back and gave a small smile. He grinned back, putting a hand against my face and smudging a tear out of the corner of my eye.

"Just stay in the back for now, Freddie. I just wish you would be able to take over this business in the future with your brother."

The sadness in his voice hit me harder than any anger he could have thrown at me. I swallowed hard and nodded.

"Dad… you've done this all your life. You've seen everything in Gotham. After all these years, how can you still feel this way?"

Stroking his thick fingers in my hair, he spoke quietly. "Because, Freddie, you have to tell yourself these things over and over again until you believe it."

I couldn't help but be cynical. "And what will happen the day you don't believe it anymore?" He merely shrugged. "That's the day I retire."

* * *

I got off the bus stop in front of Arkham, which looked far from maintained. Someone covered in newspapers lay curled under the bench as I stepped off the bus and made my way to the double doored entrance. As I walked in, I felt a shudder down my spine as I eyed the arched ceiling and tall white columns. This could have been a beautiful building. That was all near impossible now.

Approaching the receptionist desk, I nodded to the older blonde woman sitting behind it on the phone. "I'll transfer you to Dr. Carter, thanks for waiting…" She hung up and turned to me, giving a tight smile. "Can I help you?"

I cleared my throat, nodding. "Yes, I scheduled a meeting with Dr. Crane at six." She eyed my dark purple scrubs and raised an eyebrow. "That's kinda late. Are you a nurse?" She asked, eyes widening in approval.

"Not exactly."

"Hmm…" Her mouth puckered in distaste at my deflection. She picked up the phone and pressed a few numbers, speaking into it curtly.

"The woman who called on Saturday is here for you, Dr. Crane."

"Miss Rothschild." I offered my name, feeling weird at her tone of voice. The receptionist waved a hand lazily, mouthing 'He knows'. "He'll be right down." She said, hanging up the phone and tapping her chipping manicured nails against the desk. After a brief pause, she tilted her head and slanted her eyes at me. "That boy's gay, you know."

"What?" I looked to her and frowned, confused.

"Dr. Crane. He's never talked about a girl or kids or nothin'."

"O-kay." I simply shrugged, hoping he would come to the front desk faster. She gave a wink, smiling lasciviously now. Trying to ignore her jibe, I gave a scoff and crossed my arms. Quickly I rescinded my silence, turning to her to explain.

"Look, I'm not here to-"

"Miss Rothschild."

I spun around quickly, cheeks hot from her suggestions. "H-hello, Dr. Crane." I nodded, not wanting to look at the receptionist's face now. Apparently he did, giving her a blank stare and quickly looking back to me. "Shall we?" He gestured to the large staircase across the lobby. I followed him silently.

The large oak door had a metal plate with _'Jonathan Crane, Supervisor'_ engraved in non-scripted lettering. As he unlocked and held the door open for me to walk in, I gave him a wide berth as I passed by. Thick books lined the shelf behind his cleanly organized desk, and two diplomas from the state university hung on the wall. Aside from that, nothing gave away his personal life. What could be taken for modern minimalism bordered simplistic dreariness. The peeling wallpaper in the corners didn't help, but that was all of Arkham.

"I'm keeping Mr. Williams on hold until we settle this issue, I don't want the county to be charged with any possible disinterment fees." I said, taking a seat and turning to look at him as he passed me to take his own spot behind the desk. "You know how the city _hates_ wasting money."

He gave a small smile at my sarcastic comment, but said nothing. My hands couldn't help but wring themselves as he took a moment to examine me. Whatever that ridiculous receptionist assumed, either of him or me, he was attractive. It was off, though. Maybe his eyes were just a _little_ too blue. I had to look away from him.

"Before you called, I had discussed the situation with my superiors." Dr. Crane folded his hands on the desk. "Fortunately for you, the outcome is in your favor."

I couldn't help but break into a big smile. "So, the Head of Directors agreed with you?"

At that, his lips quirked into a quizzical smirk. "So it seems."

This was going perfectly, I couldn't believe it. "Does this mean I can initiate an inquiry? For Mr. Williams, and the others?"

After a brief flinch, eyes half blinking, his whole body remained perfectly still except his lips as he spoke. "We agreed to take preventative measures to avoid further deaths. As for the already deceased, we had to come to a different resolution."

Cryptic statements always irritated me. I took in a deep breath, smiled wider and forced the sore spot to the back of my mind. Nonetheless, I felt my heart begin to thump in my chest.

"What kind of resolution?" I asked carefully, feeling an edge in my voice.

Crane reached down towards the floor, and I couldn't help but scoot back in my chair almost reflexively. His eyes narrowed and full lips pulled a sly smile in response to my defensive impulse as he brought up an average tan suitcase, slightly scuffed but not the worse for wear. Setting it flat on the desk, he slid it towards me and wordlessly gestured to it with an open palm, eyebrows raised.

"What is this?" I couldn't help but be completely lost.

"This is your answer, Miss Rothschild."

"… I don't get it."

With a slow sigh, he unlatched the case and opened it. Inside were fresh from the bank, crisply printed twenty dollar bills. Strapped into two thousand dollar bands. In layers.

I stifled a gasp.

"How much is that?"

"I'll assume over twice your yearly income." He latched the suitcase closed, smoothing a hand over the faux leather top. Taking in a slow breath, I pressed my palms into my lap, and my pulse began to race. Coming here was a terrible mistake.

"This… was the result of your talk with the Head of Directors?" I slowly drew my eyes to him, cautious to not give away the fear in my look. This was terrifying, I had expected a full faced denial, an order by some upper management to not meddle in things I didn't know. I didn't expect this. Was it possible to almost want a lawsuit for slander instead of a suitcase full of cash?

Wrong question. It was an almost imperceptible change. Almost. His air of courteous disinterest suddenly snapped into a displeasured focus, only observed by a tilt of his head and a twitch in his jaw.

"This was the result," He spoke at a pace that enunciated every syllable, snapping the 't' against his teeth, "of your complaint being brought to our attention."

I understood.

Crystalline blue eyes bore through me. I tore my gaze away, a lump forming in my throat. My voice was just above a whisper. "I don't think I can take the money."

His mouth set into a thin line. "You're going to have to speak louder."

"I… I can't take the money."

"Yes, you will."

"This is, this is _so_ wrong-" I stood up suddenly, the chair screeching against the floor as I turned and ran towards the door. Just as my right hand touched the doorknob, fingers snaked around my left wrist and pulled me back, hard. I let out a short yell and his other hand quickly clamped over my mouth. Jerking violently only made his grip harder, my whole body beginning to shake in fear. Was he going to kill me? Oh, God, I was an idiot.

The hand smothering the bottom half of my face forcefully turned my head to the side, and he spoke in a low manner against the nape of my neck. "You will take the suitcase, and you will buy your parents nice gifts, because you _care_ about your family. The contract will remain between our businesses, because you _care_ about your future. We will remain allies, because it is in _your_ best interest. Know when to pick your battles, Miss Rothschild. This is not one of them. Your assertiveness and aggression is very convincing and admirable when you are emotional… but that is not who you are."

I couldn't think of anything to say, seeing that I was becoming lightheaded from breathing in a ragged and fast manner; his breathing was perfectly controlled.

"I'm going to need a confirmation from you, Miss Rothschild."

Slowly, I nodded. His hand against my mouth relaxed, and after a moment when I didn't scream, moved away completely. As the weight of his body left mine, I wobbled in place a bit. He passed me without so much as a second look, picking up the suitcase and turning to hand it to me. I was too angry to fully look him in the face, but a quick glance revealed his glasses were slightly out of place and his hair a bit mussed.

"I'm glad we had this talk."

It took everything in me to not take the suitcase and hit him in the face with it. In fact, that was the thought that crossed my mind on the way home and not at the opportune moment. As I grabbed the handle of the suitcase and jerked it away from him, his index finger grazed mine. Involuntarily I flinched, and in that split second I saw him hold back the slightest of grins on his expression.

He was drinking in my cowardice. It made me sick to my stomach. Confidently striding past me, he opened the door and gestured with his free hand. Without a word, I turned to leave. As I passed him, I felt the pressure of his hand on my back, and he leaned in again and spoke slowly.

"If you plan on making any rash decisions on your way out, you might want to be careful who you ask for help." Crane added, a rise in his tone. "Your pleas might fall on deaf ears. Or worse."

"I think the money is enough to get what you want, threats aren't necessary." I shot him a look, eyes narrowing as I tried to regain some of my nerve. That nasty grin of his finally broke through.

"I was told to give to give you the money. The threats I give freely."

Running a shaky hand through my hair, I passed by him without so much as a look back. But I knew he was watching me walk away.

* * *

I stood at the bus stop, in the dark, outside Arkham. In the Narrows. With a suitcase full of money. Nervously, I checked my phone and saw three missed called from Sam. I immediately called him, not sure what to say. Should I tell him what happened? He had just gotten engaged to his boyfriend of five years, and they just bought a house in the upper west side. Could I bring him into this situation? Was it wrong to do that to him?

_"Freddie!"_ Sam shouted on the other line. My mouth hung open, but I was speechless. There was a moment of silence in the air.

_"… Freddie?"_

"Hey, Sam, sorry!" I breathed heavily into the phone, forcing a laugh. From the slight pause, he wasn't sure what was going on.

_"I was trying to call you, but you didn't answer. Where were you?" _

"I was," My voice gave out briefly from my lack of breath, "at Arkham. I was at Arkham."

_"Arkham? Really?"_ I could hear the underlying confusion in his voice. Swallowing thickly, I took in a slow breath and explained.

"Yeah, I… had a meeting with one of the supervisors about our issue."

_"And?"_

Tears quickly came to. I blinked them back furiously. "… Everything's fine. It checked out."

I wanted him to hear the trembling in my voice, to know that something was wrong. If he asked, then at least I couldn't have the guilt of forcing him to be involved. Whatever I had taken a peek at, it was a mistake worth over a hundred grand. Mistakes like that weren't simply glossed over.

_"Aww, see? I knew you were overreacting. I want to hear about your talk with Dad, he seemed better after you left. Come over for dinner, Roger's making enchiladas."_

That was it. Either he was truly oblivious, or didn't want to know. Clearing my throat, I nodded to no one in particular and resigned myself to take this on alone.

"I'll be there in an hour."


	4. chapter o3

Disclaimer: Nolanverse and DC characters/settings are not mine. For the curious, Innominata is the latin word for "unnamed". Perhaps ironically, it's also the name of the first patented embalming fluid, created by Thomas Holmes, the father of modern embalming. In addition to that tidbit of funeral trivia, I'd also like each reader who has reviewed to know that you have my full adoration, and that I thoroughly cherished your words. I can only hope you continue enjoying, dear reader.

* * *

It was two thirty in the morning, and I was sitting in the middle of my bed. Knees drawn to my chest, I repetitively ran my fingers up and down my shins. Aside from the faint glow of the city lights fading through my plastic blinds, the lights were off. I couldn't sleep. In fact, I had just woken up.

From a fucking wretched nightmare.

Even after a full hour sitting still in the dark, I could remember it clearly. I was in the prep room, getting ready to embalm, as usual. A white sheet covered the body, as was standard procedure. As I pulled it back, I saw none other than Mr. Timothy Williams, mug beaten to a pulp and all. Not scary, I'd seen worse. He was wide eyed and staring at me, corneas starting to cloud from decay. His split lip stretched a smile, and his gums were already starting to recede from rot.

_"The doctor said I had a heart attack, Miss."_ His voice was hollow and rattled horribly. _"Right after I gave myself a concussion and bled my brain out."_

"The correct term is myocardial infarction." I corrected, lifting a scalpel and putting two fingers against his clavicle. As I made my incision, he hacked out a long and painful cough. Blood stained spittle collected in the corner of his mouth.

"Stop moving, please. I don't want to cut a vein."

_"Sorry."_

I turned away to place the scalpel down and picked up a couple of aneurysm hooks. When I turned back, it was then when the nightmare started.

It wasn't _what_ I saw, but _who_. Mr. Williams was no longer on the embalming table, replaced by something more sinister. Something with blank hazel eyes and dirty blond locks matted with blood. Half his face was torn up, and there were pieces of glass embedded in his face and hair. My heart stopped, and I could feel bile rising up into my throat.

"Y-you can't be here," I jabbed an aneurysm hook in his direction. "I buried you two years ago."

_"…Well, that's the catch about the things you bury."_ The all-too-familiar figure said, giving a slow wink as he propped himself up on his bloodied elbows on the embalming table. The sheet slid down to reveal the giant, rippled autopsy "Y" across his smooth, hairless chest. _"They can always be exhumed."_

Back in reality, I had stopped trembling and slowly stretched my legs out. After a moment, I pulled the suitcase out from under my bed and perched it on top of the mess of my bed sheets. I couldn't help but feel that it took a life of its own when I wasn't looking at it, like a monster brewing out of sight.

I stared at it for a good minute. Even though it was forced upon me with plain instructions, I couldn't help but worry about using it incorrectly. What if the money was fake? Or maybe it was stolen, and if I used it the police could trace it back to me? The longer I stared at the suitcase, the more agitated I became. I wanted to toss it into a dumpster, but if I did that, then where would my compensation for agreeing to Dr. Crane's abuse and being his dead men lackey come from?

…Unless I decided to annul the agreement entirely.

A shiver ran down my spine. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine how I would even begin to rescind this pact I bound myself to. He would probably strangle me before I even finished a proper sentence. Goosebumps erupted on my skin at the thought of those constricting hands, fingers curled around my neck. I could feel my stomach churning. My eyes snapped open and I pulled the covers up to my shoulders.

I was becoming delirious from lack of sleep and stress, and had to at least solve one of those problems before making any decisions on what to do. Shifting out of bed and heading for the sleeping pills in one of the kitchen drawers, I heard the melodic wave of strings from above. Easily recognizable as Samuel Barber's "Adagio for Strings", I couldn't help but be impressed. Apartment 1909 had great taste, despite seeming to live by a European time zone.

Flicking on the kitchen lights, I squinted to allow my eyes to adjust. I grabbed my kettle off the counter and filled it with tap water, allowing my sleepless dazed mind to sink into the music. The violins trembled in an achingly slow pace, and as I spooned the loose leaf jasmine tea into the mesh filter, I suppressed a shudder. I could still see those cold, azure eyes boring themselves into me, the tip of his tongue grazing his bottom lip as he suppressed that shit eating grin of his. This was the fate I resigned myself to.

It had been three days since that encounter, and I had signed all the paperwork to bury Mr. Williams in the morning. The moment he was in the ground, so were Arkham's problems. Gone, but not forgotten. A disgustingly perfect metaphor. As the tea was steeping, I took the melatonin bottle out of the top drawer and knocked back a couple of tablets, swallowing hard. 1909 was quiet now.

My turn to entertain.

After sliding open the balcony door, I turned on the stereo player sitting on my coffee table and played the Arvo Part cd inside, "Cantus in Memoriam Benjamin Britten" crooning out into the Gotham night sky. I poured myself a mug of fresh jasmine tea, sans honey, and went outside. Minus the police cars tonight, the view was the same. Always publicly referred to as inspiring and enthralling, the people who lived here knew the reality of Gotham. Anyone who came from out-of-state to live in this city on their own terms was clearly insane. I blew on my tea and took a careful sip.

After a minute or two, I could hear the balcony door above open, footsteps shuffling. I froze in anticipation, waiting to see if 1909 was impressed. The next few moments seem to linger in between the flickering lights and echos of the gentle tolling of the bells, and as the song died down, the familiar creak of the metal chair signaled 1909 had decided to stay.

I fought to suppress a smile, but lost. I couldn't help but feel grateful for the silent company.

* * *

My eyes hurt every time I blinked. Red and puffy from lack of sleep, I dazedly stared at the list of names in front of me. Except that there weren't any names on the list.

"Is there something wrong here?" I asked blankly. Sam straightened his tie, standing next to me to look at the white board marked with only blank lines. He shook his head, glancing to me with a questioning look. "No cases to work on today, I guess."

"Thank _God_." I groaned, holding the mug of coffee in my hand closer to my nose. I hated the taste, but had the vague idea that the smell of it might revive me. Sam shook his head, scoffing. "Just make sure to casket Mr. Williams soon, I'm taking him to the cemetery at ten." He reminded, walking away. The aroma of coffee turned sour at that thought. I put the mug down and grabbed a couple of gloves.

Timothy Williams, like other county cases, weren't embalmed. It was the polite thing to do in case they didn't want it. I opened the walk in cooler, checked his tags and pulled him out. The cloth-covered casket was already waiting for him, standard for a county burial, as it was inexpensive and durable. I went through the motions like a well oiled machine, using the body lift to gently lower him into the casket, checking his tags again and signing off the remaining paperwork to be sent with him to the cemetery. As I sat at my work desk, checking name spelling and correct birth and death dates, I heard a whisper.

_"Freddie."_

Looking over my shoulder for Sam, I saw no one. The ventilator needed to be replaced soon, it was making weird sounds anyways. I turned back to my desk.

Something thumped against the casket. Spinning around in my chair, I bent down to see if a handle broke off, or if a jar of restorative makeup fell off the counter. Anything out of a run of the mill horror film failed to shock me, and strange noises were at the dirt bottom of the list of scary things. I stood up and walked around the casket, checking for any sign of damage. Then, there was another thump.

It was coming from inside.

I slowly laid a hand on the crown of the casket. When I lifted the lid, I saw the same hazel eyes from my nightmare staring back at me.

_"Hello, Freddie."_

"Augh!" I stepped back too quickly and fell, the lid crashing down in a loud crack. Sam scrambled inside, looking around wildly. When his eyes fell on me sprawled on the floor, they widened briefly. He stepped over and held out a hand, which I reluctantly took.

"Are you okay?" He asked, though his expression seemed more accusatory than concerned. Nodding, I fought back all the ridiculous things I wanted to say. Sam walked over to the casket and pulled up the lid. Mr. Williams was still there, just the same as I had placed him.

Carefully, he looked to me and asked slowly. "Freddie, what happened?"

Words couldn't come out. I shook my head, and shrugged. Sam let out a slow breath from his nose, which oddly reminded me of a dragon cooling the fire in its throat. After a pause, he shook his head and started making his way out of the prep room.

"Fine, whatever. I have to be leaving in ten minutes. The cemetery is expecting me there in a half hour."

"You can't!" I blurted, the words coming out of my mouth before I could even think.

He paused, asking stiffly. "...Why?"

"There's something wrong with the burial transit permit."

"What?!" He spun on his heels, fuming. "What's wrong with it?"

"I, I got the wrong doctor to write the cause of death." I lied, feeling my face get hot. Dad was going to kill me.

Sam stifled a groan. "Freddie…" Rubbing a hand against his chin agitatedly, he walked out without saying anything. Tears formed in the corners of my eyes, but I aggressively scrubbed them away. I walked over to the paperwork at my desk, picking it up and throwing it in the trash.

I was sitting at the desk for a few minutes, staring blankly at the wall when my mother came in. Her hair was in a neat auburn bun, and she was sporting a white billowy blouse and black trousers. All signs that she was in the middle of some sort of arrangement. I glanced to her listlessly, then back to the wall.

"Freddie, what's going on? Are you upset about something?"

"I screwed up the burial for Sam." I could feel the lie tingling my teeth, my head pounding in a growing headache. She shook her head dismissively. "The city can wait, you did the right thing. Oh, baby." Putting a hand against my forehead and the back of my neck, she tsked gently. "You're sweating. Do you want to go upstairs and lay down? There's probably some flu medicine in the kitchen."

"It's okay, I'm fine."

"Just five minutes." She pressed, pushing a lock of hair behind my ear. I let out a sigh, nodding and standing up to go down the hallway to the main lobby. Being a fourth-generation funeral director in a long history of service, the funeral home was constructed in the way many New England funeral parlors used to be. Lobby and chapels on the first floor, arrangement offices and file rooms as well. Upstairs had the kitchen, family bathroom and my parent's bedroom. Third floor above that had two more bedrooms, which for the past twenty something years or so were for Sam and I.

Over time, the prep room and refrigeration units were moved from the basement to a constructed addition to the back of the funeral home, which was Dad's great idea as the basement made better storage for caskets. He was in the planning stages for attaining a retort for cremations, but for now we had a contract with another funeral home who already had one for the time being. I slowly made my way up the stairs, the wood letting out the tiniest of creaks with each step. Passing the dining table on the second floor, where many meals were taken together as a family just before or after a funeral, I continued up to the very top of the staircase.

My room had some new storage boxes and old equipment stuck in the corners now, aside from that it was still the same as I had left it. Most of the furniture went with me to my new apartment, but an old Pan Am map of the world was still taped to my ceiling. I sat on a parlor chair that had been taken upstairs for upholstering, fiddling my thumbs nervously.

I had officially cancelled the burial scheduled for today, pissed off Sam and freaked out my mother. It was only nine thirty in the morning, and I was stirring things up. The room was silent enough that I could hear the pounding of my heartbeat ringing in my ears.

This could be easily mended, I could fake a couple phone calls to Arkham, reprint the burial transit permit and schedule the burial for tomorrow. The suitcase could stay under my bed and I could hope police officers never had a reason to raid my apartment for the rest of my life.

There was the second option, though.

The small hole in the wood flooring near an old Porti-Boy embalming machine caught my eye. I stood up off the chair, bent down, and stuck a finger into it.

Normally this might have seemed like a stupid thing to do, but it was a small secret of mine since I had been in the room. When one curved a finger into the hole and pulled upward, the slim floorboard easily popped off. It was my hiding place for a cigarette that I snuck from my father when I was eleven, where I hid a purple swirled glass pipe when I was seventeen, and also where I kept condoms once I entered senior year. Those were all long gone, but the last thing I had ever stuffed in there remained.

A scrap of newspaper, a death notice. When I unfolded the small fragment of yellowed printing, I felt my stomach lurch. There was the face I'd seen in my nightmare, and in William's casket. Most likely a high school picture, his hair was slightly ruffled and eyes crinkled from his large smile. _"CORIN DARCY, aged 20, of Gotham died June 20th. Visitation: 6 to 10 p.m. Thursday at Rothschild Funeral Home. Services: 10 a.m. Friday at St. Martha's Catholic Church."_

Tears clouded my vision, and I immediately replaced the clipping in the floor. Pushing the floorboard back into place, I let out a shaky breath and bit back a sob. There wasn't any way I could go through with Crane's directives.

_My grave is already occupied. I don't have room to bury your secrets too._

Second option it was, then.

* * *

I arrived at Arkham unannounced. Leaving work early, I went home and showered, changing into a knee-length dress and boots, black cardigan and my hair in a braid down my back. The suitcase came with me, and I didn't intend on coming back with it. When I approached the lobby desk, the receptionist gave me a once over before recognizing me.

"Are you here for Dr. Crane again?" She asked slyly, appraising my change of attire. I gave her my best smile.

"I am. Could you tell him Miss Rothschild is waiting in the lobby for him?"

She wasted no time. I pretended to be interested in the architecture as she dialed his office, and from the sound of it, he wasn't pleased.

"Yes, the girl from Monday… Well, she didn't say. Would you like me to ask?" There was a long pause on the receptionist's end. She frowned slightly, then nodded. "Of course." Hanging up, she shot me a pitiful smile. "He said he'd be down in a few minutes."

It was then when the nervousness started to bubble in my core. "Thank you." I said softly.

After what seemed like the longest five minutes of my life, I saw him coming down the staircase. My throat tightened as he approached closer. God, the sweater vest he was sporting today was particularly atrocious. I was beginning to think that his clothing choices were actually hurting my feelings.

As he came to a stop in front of the receptionist's desk, Crane cleared his throat, tilting his head as he shot me a tight smile. "As you are familiar with the fact that I run a busy schedule, I _truly_ can't imagine what would necessitate a visit on such short notice."

_Lay the derision on thick, fucker. It's gonna cost you._

My palms were sweating profusely, but I stretched a smile. "Oh, several things, actually. I think this belongs to you." I extended the suitcase out towards him. He eyed it for a moment, ignoring the receptionist's gaze moving from the suitcase to him in curiosity. Slowly, he reached out and took it from me.

Crane's eyes immediately narrowed as he felt the weight of the money in the suitcase, which meant he knew where I was going with this. "Why don't we discuss these issues of yours in my office?" He said carefully, offering his free hand to lead the way. I merely glanced at it, then looked over his shoulder to the chairs in the waiting area of the lobby. The receptionist quietly cleared her throat, trying not to bring attention to her presence so she could continue to watch the scene unfold.

_Good idea. Stay in her view._

"I'm a bit pressed on time, it would be better to sort this out quickly." I pointed to the waiting area, and started walking past him to avoid any protest. Curling his fingers into an unclenched fist, he followed.

I chose the seat with my back to the receptionist, so he would be forced to be faced in her direction. He was undoubtedly picking up on each cue; lips pursed to prevent a grimace, eyes trained on me intently. Ignoring the beads of sweat forming along my hairline, I continued with the memorized strategy I had repeated to myself all morning. In order to avoid any nervous hiccups, I spoke to the collar of his shirt.

"I've decided to initiate an inquiry on Arkham. Mr. Williams will be sent to the county medical examiner, and not buried as planned. I'll also be requesting the investigation of three other decedents and their relationships to the doctors who signed their death certificates." My voice was quivering, but I pressed on. "In the meantime, I suggest you hire a good lawyer."

I was sure the only thing keeping my neck intact was being in the direct line of vision of the receptionist, who was watching intently. What I wasn't sure of, was his reaction. I had expected a glare cold enough to sting, nostrils flaring, some sort of scowl. Instead, he smiled.

"I can't help but wonder… if Donald Rothschild is aware that his daughter is fixing a lawsuit against the largest psychiatric facility in the state."

Anger flared itself in my chest. "He will be, once Mr. Williams comes back from the examiner with confirmed reason for suspicion of foul play." I hissed. "Don't try to belittle me, I'm not the one here who made a huge mistake."

Crane's eyes widened briefly in mock surprise. "Are you quite sure of that?"

He could threaten me all he wanted, but when it came to business, he was just a skinny man in a suit. I stood up, as did he. Nodding once, I turned and exited the building without looking back.

Outside, the air was growing chilly. I pulled my cardigan tighter around me, making my way to the bus stop. My lips were obscenely dry, half due to the cold weather, half due to nearly shitting myself for a full ten minutes while making enemies. After a couple of minutes waiting by the bench, the underside of it still occupied, I pulled out a pot of lip balm from my pocket and applied it liberally.

"I'm curious. What brought on this change of heart?"

My stomach clenched, and I spun around to see Dr. Crane standing right behind me, suitcase still in hand. Lips puckered in an effort to spread the balm evenly, I dragged a thumb across my bottom lip to avoid further scrunchy face. His eyes slowly followed my finger, then made their way back to my gaze.

"Oh, you know… the fact that I _really_ wanted to do this in the first place." I said in a venomously sweet tone, feeling my lip curl in disgust. That was half the explanation, of course.

The cogs were turning in Crane's head, I could see it in the way he drank in all of my defensive gestures; white-tipped fingers clenching into a tight fist around the balm pot, shoulders hunched, the general look on my face that explicitly stated that I wanted to punch him hard enough to break his glasses.

"Surely, there's something else." He probed, gaze raking over my stiff countenance. "I'd highly doubt someone like yourself would put your family's business in jeopardy over a mere conviction of morality."

I deflected his simultaneous bull's-eye and half ass attempt at flattery, which I knew was only in a strive towards his benefit. "You don't know what kind of 'someone' I am."

Letting a half scoff pass his lips, he turned back towards Arkham's entrance as the transit bus came into sight down the road. He paused to turn and shoot me a condescending look, saving his most cutting words for last.

"You assume that guarding your words and actions occlude and protect you. A flawed notion. Such measures only make your vulnerabilities more evident."


	5. chapter o4

Disclaimer: Nolanverse and DC characters/settings are not mine. If you are starting school again this week, I wish you all the luck you can muster to finish the second half of the year, dear reader.

* * *

_'Dear 1909,'_

I paused, eyeing the way I wrote the numbers. Too fancy. I crumpled the sheet of paper, starting anew on a blank one underneath.

_'Dear 1909',_

_I hope this attention doesn't upset you, but I'd like to share some music that I think is rather beautiful, considering that we seem to have similar tastes.'_

Tapping the pen against the desk, I reflected on my wording. Did I sound too sentimental? No, it was formal. Formal was fine. I continued.

_'While I'm sure you're familiar with Rachmaninov, I couldn't think of a better introduction. _

_Sincerely, _

_1809'_

Staring at the note for a few more seconds, I decided it was good enough. I folded the paper neatly, once in half, then again. Pulling off a piece of tape, I attached the brief note to a cd case. It was an album of Sergei Rachmaninov's music that I had for years, serving as the first official sacrifice towards the effort of being an amiable neighbor. I figured Rachmaninov wasn't too conventional, but not too pretentious. Right?

A deep voice almost made me fall out of my chair. "Who's that for?"

Spinning around, I clutched the case in both hands and stared warily at my father, who was leaning against one of the embalming tables, arms crossed and sly look plastered across his face. This was the constant danger of committing personal tasks in the workplace. _Snooping._

"A friend." I answered dryly. His eyebrows furrowed in response.

"I didn't know you had _friends_."

The fact that he said that without spite or jest was a blatant reminder of the hard truth that I spent way too much time at work. I sniffed, unaffected. "…Being emotionally supportive is a vital role in being a parent, isn't it?"

"I financially supported you for twenty-three years, you can take of the rest." Stepping towards me and laying a hand on the top of my head, he let out a gruff laugh and smoothed it gently. I broke into a smile, all rude jibes forgotten. Being a daddy's girl was a lifelong fault of mine.

"So," Changing the subject, his face took on a more serious look. "Tell me about this Timothy Williams, and why you're sending him to the medical examiner."

Stiffening, I looked to him slowly. He didn't seem angry or confused, merely curious. I spun around back towards my workspace, facing my pile of papers and placing the plastic case on the desk. Several forms requesting a full autopsy and their details lay filled out, which I picked up and handed to him. As he read through them briefly, he scoffed to himself. I fidgeted a bit as he carefully checked all the t's crossed and i's dotted, pursing his lips in thought.

"Very good. I haven't seen a request for an autopsy like this in a long time." Handing them back to me, he gave me a smile. Even with his approval, I couldn't help feeling nervous. "Am I'm doing the right thing?" I asked carefully, feeling like I was eighteen and an apprentice for the first time again. Letting out a heavy sigh, he nodded slowly.

"If I had been aware of this the first time it happened, you wouldn't have had to talk to any supervisors, or anyone, for that matter." Looking to me again, his eyes narrowed. "Arkham is aware of the possible examination?"

Feeling a pang of anxiety at the thought, I nodded stiffly. "Yes." Gaze softening, he mirrored my gesture and shrugged. "Well then, I suppose all we can do is wait."

A comforting thought. While he talked as if it were a mere gathering of supplementary information, to me it felt like opening Pandora's box. Of course, I ripped that top off the moment I returned an inordinate amount of money to Dr. Crane, and expressed via a series of multiple physical cues that he could shove it up his ass. Just thinking of him made my insides write with irritation. What an insufferable man.

Glancing to the clock, it was five minutes to six. I stood, picking up the cd case and gesturing to the time displayed on the wall. "I have to get groceries before it gets dark, when James takes Williams to the medical examiner tomorrow, give me a call if they need anything else from me." Taking my hair out of my tightly wound bun, I shook my copper tresses out, scratching my head from the loosened tension of my scalp. My father fought a yawn, blinking back sleep glazed eyes; the past few weeks spent trying to figure out how to go forward in additional renovations to the funeral home had run him ragged.

"Can you come over for dinner on Sunday? Your mother is making that vegetable lasagna you like." He prodded, giving me an expectant look. I nodded emphatically, as any chance to scrounge for leftovers meant less cooking on my end. "Yeah, sure, I'll call you in the afternoon." I smiled eagerly.

"Do you need a ride to the store?" He offered. I shook my head. "No, I just need to get some milk, maybe laundry detergent. Boring _adult_ things."

"Almost a full year after her little brother moved out, my baby girl's finally growing up." Giving me a kiss on the forehead, he turned and left me alone in the prep room. Fiddling with the note and cd in my hand, I shoved it into my messenger bag and left the empty room to clock out for the day.

* * *

It was a Friday night in Gotham, and I was shopping for milk at Mariano's Grocery. _'You're going to die alone.'_ I thought to myself, deciding between 2% and skim. Didn't they basically taste the same? Opting for the 2%, I took the half-gallon off the shelf half heartedly and continued ridiculing myself in semi conscious musings.

_'A half gallon of milk for my non-existent twelve cats, except when the fire department barges into my apartment, they'll find me under a pile of casket catalogs instead.'_ I bit back a grim laugh at the thought, and then realized in my peripheral vision that someone was watching me. I turned my head to see a man in his mid to late thirties, forest green army jacket and beige baseball cap, five o' clock shadow and bright green eyes. The intensity of his look startled me, but I instantly recognized him as the typical Gotham sleaze creep.

Normally after eye contact was met, the casual creep would shoot me a leering look, but he quickly looked away. Strangely enough, I found that even weirder. He quickly put the gallon of orange juice in his hand basket and walked away. Fighting a scowl, I went in the opposite direction for fabric softener.

Leaving the store with a couple of bags of groceries in hand, I quickly made my way towards Kinsley Station to get on the brown line and transfer at Wayne Central, as I always did to get home. To avoid the Friday night crowds, I took a routine shortcut on 7th Avenue near the beginnings of the packing district, where old abandoned factory buildings crumbled in Gotham's ritzy shadows. The sun was almost completely out of sight, rays spearing the violet and pink hues in the sky. I only walked faster as the colors began to fade.

Of course, considering my prior knowledge of "abandoned warehouses" and stupidly applying it to the situation of "solitary female at dusk", I couldn't have been too alarmed to see army jacket creep face come out from around the corner I was rapidly approaching. No groceries in his hands, of course. I stopped in my tracks, eyeing him warily. Maybe if I put a really nasty face on it might dissuade him from anything. He only cracked a sneer in response.

"Aww, don't give me that look, Sugar." The rough growl in his voice terrified me. I had never been in this situation before, and I could feel my heart ramming itself against my sternum. Quickly dropping my bags, I opened my messenger bag and fumbled around inside. He must have thought I had a gun, as he swiftly pulled out a mean-looking, curved hunter's knife from his hip and ran towards me. The sound of his boots in the dirt made my head swirl and I screamed, pulling out a bottle of embalming chemical from my bag and running as fast as I could away from him.

I couldn't look back, but I felt that he was getting closer. Only going to the gym once every two weeks when I was struck with the motivation to get washboard abs, I was not in the position to outrun a psycho freak for long distances. My lungs were hurting from the cold air that I took in large gulps, and when I reached a block before Ricard street, which was more populated with bystanders, I had to turn my head to check.

He was gone.

My pace slowed, but I kept moving. Half a block before I reached Ricard, he appeared out from around another corner in front of me.

"Fuck!" I shouted, half in terror, half in frustration. My sides were killing me, and my chest was about to burst. He was breathing hard as well, cheeks ruddy from the exhaustion of pursuit. Stalking slowly, knife in hand, he eyed the plastic bottle of cloudy pink fluid in my hand.

"What is that," He spoke between pants. "Kool-Aid? Do I look _thirsty_ to you?"

I quickly uncapped the bottle, holding it close. I could smell the fumes coming from the fluid, but he was now at arm's length, and still couldn't detect the potency. Without a reply, I flung the contents at his face. He moved an arm to shield himself, but a moment too late. As soon as it made contact, he clapped his hands to his eyes and screamed. The knife felt to the ground, as did he, writhing terribly.

"What the fuck!" He shouted. Quickly, I kicked the knife on the ground out of his reach. It scattered into the shadows, now indecipherable from sidewalk trash. Nearly stumbling backwards into the ground, I stepped away from him with weak knees.

"The fuck was that shit?!" He screamed, face red with rage and pain. "Formaldehyde, you_ idiot_!" I snapped. He moaned in response. As dazed and furious as I was, I couldn't leave him to be blinded in the dark.

"Look, I'm going to call an ambulance, but you have to stay put." I said slowly, edging away towards the main street. A snarling growl ripped from his lips.

"Fuck you!"

I let out a shaky sigh. "Okay, fine." Looking over my shoulder, I saw an old telephone booth at the end of the block, on the other side of the street. My phone was in my messenger bag, but nearly half a city block back. Across the street, then.

The phone booth was graffitied to shit, and the inside smelled like urine. If I remembered correctly, change wasn't needed to dial emergency. But I wasn't even sure if this worked. Picking up the stale smelling receiver, I heard the dial tone droning and quickly punched 9-1-1. It rang only once, and I let out a breath of relief as it was quickly answered.

_"911, Where's your emergency?"_ A male operator responded smoothly. My mind immediately blanked in the panic, and I couldn't think of what to say. Looking out the heavily scratched up plastic siding, I made out the street names hanging above.

"Uhm… There's a guy near the corner of Ricard Street and 7th avenue. I think someone pepper sprayed him."

_"Is he incapacitated?"_ He asked. Shrugging to an audience of no one, I shook my head stupidly and mumbled. "Y-yeah, I think so. He's kind of violent." Another glance outside displayed the man in the distance, covering his face with his jacket, still rolling in the dirt.

_"Okay, I'm dispatching a fire crew and two police cars now to the scene. In the meantime, please stay at a safe place nearby to aid the police in anything you might know-"_

I hung up, not letting him finish his request. Like hell I was getting myself involved in possible assault charges. Making my way back to the other side of the street, he heard my footsteps crunch in the gravel and dirt and turned his head in my direction.

"I can't see!" The creep roared, eyes swollen and bloodshot. I picked up the empty chemical bottle off the ground, my nostrils flaring in indignation. "Well that's what you get for trying to kill me, you _asshole_! And whatever the fuck else you were thinking of doing!"

The words that came out of his mouth struck me harder than any punch he could have thrown at me.

"I wasn't gonna do _shit_, I was doing my _job_. He's gonna fucking get you, bitch!"

_He._

Fingers cold and trembling, my throat raw and parched, I stepped closer towards him. "Who?!" I asked desperately, my voice cracking. I was loud enough that he attempted to make a swipe at me with his arms, but my feet were just out of reach. Lying with his stomach against the ground, he growled into the pavement.

"You know _who_."

I was running before I could even think.

* * *

When I reached the lights and crowds at the station, my legs gave out on me and I immediately collapsed to the ground, dry heaving on the pavement. I could hear people gasp and a child laugh, but I merely let the heaves rock my body, my face tight and red from running and my mind buzzing. I wiped at my mouth and stood up, legs shaking. My feet carried me in a slow trudge to the last car of the train, where a couple of bicyclists and an old man occupied the corners of the car. Reflections on the darkened windows moved as people shifted back and forth inside, making me jump when one moved too quickly. I was constantly looking over my shoulder.

He had to have followed me from work, that was the only logical explanation. I didn't even notice until it was almost too late. Clutching my retrieved messenger bag to my chest, I couldn't concentrate on one single thought. I was fucked, I fucked up. There was no way I was going to get out of this. I had to get to my apartment, and stay there until I could figure something out. I fucked up. I fucked up.

Crane was coming after me.

The entire way home was a blur. When I was inside my apartment building, my hands trembled violently as I made my way up in the elevator. I stopped off at the nineteenth floor first to deposit what I had originally thought was going to be the highlight of my day. Propping the case and note up against the bottom of the door of 1909, I quickly walked back towards the elevator and the safety of my apartment.

Later that night, I laid stretched out on the couch, staring at the ceiling. Adrenaline still coursed through me, and hearing the sirens crooning through the city made my stomach cringe horribly.

Could I go to the police with this? In this city, that could go two ways. Either they extended the investigation all the way to the three previous buried victims and charged our business with working with Arkham, or some crooked ass cop working with whoever the fuck Crane was in with could just blow the investigation up in our faces. My family didn't even know about the bribes or threats. I sat up immediately, grabbing my phone off the coffee table and staring at it.

Should I call my father and warn him? Except, maybe his ignorance was the only thing protecting him now. I turned the phone over and over in my hands, wanting to cry. Pathetic as it was, crying was cathartic and comforting to me. But tears weren't coming to. Perhaps I had used them all up in the past week, since the only emotions I could perceive at the moment were unadulterated fear, guilt and rage. They tore at my insides. Curling up on my side, I slowly closed my eyes and wished to die.

Just not by Crane's hand.

And just then, I could hear the beginning of low notes of a solo piano. It was "Prelude in C sharp minor". My eyes remained closed, but I could feel my pulse begin to slow. I was sure that it was coming from the album I left, it was the first song on it. As it came to an end, "The Isle of the Dead" slowly crept its way into my range of hearing, which confirmed it. If it were any normal day, I might have felt rather pleased with myself for charming a complete stranger.

Except I felt I had just slipped past Death's chokehold, and knew it was far from over. This was just the beginning. Perhaps, at least today was my 'Get Out of Jail Free' card for my accumulated years of service. Nothing less could be expected from the curious patron to his assistants.

Unsurprisingly, when I finally fell asleep in the early hours of the morning, I dreamt of Death. In his corporeal form, he had found me, and advanced without hesitation. Hands roaming, tangled in my hair, pressed against my windpipe. I writhed against him, and he swallowed me whole. And in that darkness, in his possession, my veins set aflame. Death's hands were knowing. And his eyes were blue.

Pale blue.


	6. chapter o5

Disclaimer: Nolanverse and DC charaters/settings are not mine. Chaos is on the horizon, dear reader.

* * *

I didn't remember waking up. It was possible that I had stirred sometime before the dawn broke, and chose not to move until daylight had well established itself. The sounds of pigeons cooing on my balcony were slowly replaced by car horns blaring and the general noises of the city, signaling that Gotham had awoken from her hangover and was now trudging along. In my living room, time stood still. My body was stiff, and in my mind, I was still reeling.

Last night, a shitty ass hitman came after me, and a fitful sleep involving a fully indecent and carnal fantasy in the depths of my dreams followed. To further the absurdity, it was said shitty ass hitman's employer who was the co-star.

Intense horror quickly followed by severe shame was all I could recall when I became conscious in reality. There really was no logic or reason between the events of yesterday and their subconscious consequences, aside from the fact that both incidents put my circulatory system into overdrive. Then again, I could have sworn I had read some online science journal that said fear and arousal were quite the benevolent neighbors in the brain. Just like how cleanliness was next to Godliness.

Say three Hail Marys and send me to Hell for that thought.

My stereo carried on playing through the night and into the early morning. Arvo Part's "Fur Alina" whispered into the corners of my apartment, ghostly keys echoing off the walls. I closed my eyes, but not for long. Every time I did, I was greeted by visions of burning cyan eyes raking across my skin, and full, pink lips grazing the tops of my bare knees, trailing downward. It shot daggers deep into the depths of that hidden part of me, a fragment that had not been awakened for years.

I was now violently and fully provoked into consciousness, and I meant all of me. Feeling the urge to give in, I tilted my head back against the couch and lowered my lids briefly, just to get a taste. As the vision of reality shaded away, my mind flickered back to the fading impression that haunted me. After a moment or two, I saw in my mind's eye a shadow in the corner. Watching intently.

"Come here, you _bastard_." I whispered, pressing an open palm against my hip and sliding my fingers towards the elastic of my undergarments. With that taunt, he drew near-

And my cell phone rang abruptly. Groaning, I rolled over to face my coffee table and picked up my phone blaring the Munster's theme song. "Mom" flashed on the screen. _Great._

"Hey, what's up?" I answered, my voice hoarse. I cleared my throat, feeling even more shameful for brushing away the lust in my voice in the presence of a parent. I was undoubtedly an awful human being.

_"Hey Freddie, I saw this morning that you called home last night."_

I froze. Did I? What else did I do? Was there a checklist of mistakes that I had promised to commit to do and forgot about?

"Umm, I probably did it by accident, there's nothing really going on." I lied casually, rubbing my feet together and realizing one of my socks had fallen off in the night.

_"You sound like you're catching something,"_ She said slowly. _"Are you okay?"_

Ugh, finally, a perfect opportunity. "...Actually, that's why I called yesterday." Forcing a nasty sounding cough, I wheezed heavily into the phone. "I can't come over tomorrow, I think I'm starting to get the flu or something."

_"Can we at least bring something to you?"_

"Don't!" I paused, choosing my words carefully. "I don't want anyone else to get sick."

_"…Okay,"_ My mother sighed over the phone, clearly displeased. _"Call us if you need anything, please baby."_

"Yeah, okay. Love you." I said slowly, hanging up the call and then sighing heavily into the receiver. Good, now I had an extra day to stay on lockdown in my apartment building and figure out what to do. Eyeing the living room, I began to notice the socks strewn on the floor and multiple glass cups on the coffee table.

Cleaning up my present confinement was probably a good start.

After sufficiently collecting most of the trash from my apartment, I opened my front door to take it to the communal trash chute a few doors down. As I stepped out, I saw a folded note stuck in the crevice of the entrance. Slowly, I bent down and picked it up, setting down my bag of garbage to unfold it.

I was not impressed. Stated simply in very neat handwriting, it read:

_'1809,_

_Your gift was very gracious, I appreciate the gesture.'_

Staring at the comically brief note blankly, I slowly became infuriated. That was _it_?

"Fine," I spat, crumpling the letter and throwing it on the ground. Staring at it hard for a moment, I then noticed additional handwriting on the crushed ball of paper. Picking it up and smoothing it out, I turned it over and read the extension to the note on the back.

_'Keep your balcony door open tonight.'_

The promise written to me only made the day go by even slower. Sitting inside all day crushed my working spirit, and no matter how good the reruns of The Twilight Zone were, I was exhausted from sitting around for hours on end. It was as if the blood had stopped circulating in my body. As soon as the sun set, I slid open the back door and sat on the concrete floor, next to the ceramic owl that keep the pigeons from shitting all over the balcony. Leaning my head against the metal grate, I looked down eighteen floors into the street and wished I could walk as freely as the people below, casually going on with their lives, no bounties on their heads.

Moping internally, I waited. In fact, I waited so long, I eventually had to stretch my numbed legs and go back inside. With my balcony door open and engaged, I ordered chinese food, ate Singapore noodles while watching 'Nightmare at 20,000 Feet', took a shower, and then finally ventured back outside. Sprinted back outside, really, as I heard the music already playing when I opened my bathroom door.

"Fuuck!" I panicked, hair still wrapped in a towel and dripping profusely. Clutching to the towel on my head, my tank top damp down my shoulders and back where my drenched curls brushed against it, I hopped outside like a maniac and looked above.

Of course, all I saw was the concrete ceiling of my balcony, which was also the floor of 1909's. What I heard was a wild dance of violins, a composition I didn't immediately recognize but would later learn it was Vivaldi's 'La Follia', or as translated, 'The Madness'. Slowing down to near silence and then emerging with ferocity, the music enraptured and invigorated me. I could feel the blood in my veins begin to move again. As gusts of wind encircled my water speckled body and chilled me, I braced myself against them and drank in the sensation. It was amazing, the feeling. I felt it all, because I was alive.

I was alive.

But for how long?

And in that realization, I felt more trapped than I had before. The threat was real. I wanted so much to go upstairs, just to sit next to someone and not be alone in this. Slowly crumpling to the floor, I buried my face into my knees, letting myself be carried away in the night by Vivaldi as I cried.

* * *

The next day, I had a fresh note in hand and was making my way across the nineteenth floor, when I was suddenly caught in surprise.

There in the doorway, stood 1909.

She was an older woman, perhaps in her sixties. Large tan coat and glasses perched on her nose, she fumbled with her keys as two brown grocery bags sat by her feet. I approached her tentatively, a large smile on my face.

"Hello?" I greeted carefully. Looking to me, the older woman mirrored my smile warmly. She nodded in greeting as she unlocked the door and pushed it open. Deciding to go for the big reveal, I took a deep breath and stepped closer. "I'm 1809, the one who gave you the cd."

"Yes?" She turned to me, smiling wider. I nodded, handing her the note. Taking it slowly, her eyebrows shot up in an endearing expression. My heart almost gave out from how delighted she looked. Unsure of what to say, I blabbed on.

"I-I just wrote that I would like you to come over sometime, maybe, and we could listen to music together." Sheepishly grinning, I looked for any signs of rejection. She nodded emphatically, clutching to the note. I let out a breath held tight in my chest, feeling relieved.

"Great! Um, do you need help with those?" I stepped forward and reached for one of the brown paper bags, but she waved me away, shaking her head. Feeling stupid, I backtracked and scratched my nose to hide the blush of embarrassment on my face.

"…Okay, uh, I'm just gonna go back now. But you'd still come over, right?"

More nodding. "Yes." She said gently. Slowly waving goodbye, she picked up the bags and went inside. I couldn't help but feel a little weird as the door closed. Then again, listening to music at three in the morning was probably a good indication of someone not being very skilled in social interaction. She was probably my future self, anyways.

I ordered chinese food for the second day around eight that night, and when the delivery man came to the door, he pointed out the note stuck in my door jamb. Hastily paying him and possibly tipping a bit too much in a rush, I opened the note and read it before I even checked the food, which turned out to be chicken instead of the shrimp I ordered.

_'1809,_

_My work is very demanding, which leaves little time for social mingling. Please understand.'_

My heart sank. Being rejected by a sixty year old woman was probably the lowest low anyone could fathom. Seriously though, why the hell did she say yes? What a bitch.

I quickly scribbled a_ 'That's fine, I understand.'_ on the back of my chinese food receipt and immediately grabbed my keys, leaving my apartment to the elevator down the hall.

On the nineteenth floor, I approached 1909 and tried to tuck the note in between the knocker on the door. It slipped through and the metal rang against the door, jarring me. _Whoops._ I froze, eyeing the peephole as I expected the door to open. As thirty seconds passed, I heard a shuffle behind the door, but no one answered.

Rejected again. Figures.

I decided to merely stuff the receipt in the door jamb, and left. That night, I slept in my bed, with headphones on.

* * *

_"Are you sure you don't want Roger to bring any soup or something?"_

"No," I spoke into the phone with a low voice, pulling the bed covers just up under my chin to help me get into character. "I just need a couple more days to figure things out."

_"Figure what out?"_ Sam asked curiously. Soundlessly, I smacked a hand against my forehead. _Stupid._ "You know… getting better." Drawing in a snotty sniff for emphasis, I shuffled around in my sheets and coughed again. Faking illness was getting harder to do as time stretched on. Different tactics were going to be necessary very soon. Could I fake chicken pox? I had it when I was eleven, so I supposed not.

_"I'm going to call again tonight, so tell me what you want for dinner then. No more high sodium chinese."_ He chided. "Okay, _Mom_." I answered flatly, calling him by his favorite nick name. Rolling my eyes, I hung up and rolled onto my stomach, groaning.

I'd just had my first full night's sleep. It was a dreamless sleep, but I couldn't be too sorry about that. Luckily, any recollections of my sexual nightmare from Friday night were now too fuzzy to even get angry about. Simultaneously while I was forgetting any awfully good (but mostly awful) fantasies, I was strategizing on how to bring Jonathan Crane down.

First, skip the police. Go for the higher paid and thus less likely bribed… the federal prosecutors. I had a couple of contacts through doing funerals for their families, but all that information was at the funeral home. So, maybe that was the second thing to do. The first thing would be to change my appearance, like cut and dye my hair. Wasn't that what people in the witness protection program did?

…Of course, I would have to leave my apartment for a few hours to do both, as I knew how to do neither. And what if the next hired doofus caught me while I was getting my highlights done? I lifted a pillow and brought it down over my head in a vain attempt to smother myself. I was doomed.

And I still needed milk. Fresh fruit would also be nice, and to top it off I was also down to one half roll of toilet paper, which for some strange reason was always the first thing to go. I would have to at least go grocery shopping for minimal supplies. Possibly be stabbed to death as well.

Or I could stay here forever and die of scurvy and lack of toilet paper. Such attractive options for a twenty something girl who severely pissed off a cruel psychopath, disguised as a four-eyed administrative lackey with stupid sideburns and terrible sweater vests. It didn't matter how good his face looked, he tried to _kill me._

Deciding to go Uptown, in the opposite direction of Arkham, I figured I'd at least be out of Crane's territory. A floppy black hat with my hair stuffed in, and large round glasses that had been out of fashion for at least three years consisted of my disguise.

If I were cuter, I might've looked more like a celebrity blatantly trying to avoid attention, rather than some weird recluse with a fear of the sun. As I locked the apartment door, I saw the edge of something white. I looked over my chunky shades, lifting the wide brim of my hat to see what was being blocked from my view.

It was another note. I scowled, but pulled it out from between my knocker and read it anyways.

_'I apologize for the change of plans. Tonight would be ideal to formally introduce ourselves.'_

"Formally," I scoffed to myself. It would probably consist of us writing to each other on a pad of paper all night, as she seemed to talk less than anyone I'd ever met. But I couldn't lie, this completely changed my mood. I quickly paced my way to the elevator, unable to control the grin threatening to split across my face.

It was raining profusely, which made hiding in Gotham even easier as people concentrated more on staying dry instead of people watching. This was a city of eyes, and only the truly experienced knew how to go from one place to the next without locking a single gaze. I took off my glasses when I boarded a bus, but the drenched hat stayed on. Staring straight ahead out the windows as I stood grasping to a pole, I kept my peripheral vision acute.

Every suit passing by was a lethal supervisor, and each baseball cap in my fleeting glances hid thin and sharpened contraband. I was still terribly paranoid, and going mad at an alarming rate. In and out, that was the goal._ Avoid the 2% milk._

Someone sneezed loudly from behind, causing me to flinch and shoot the offender a nasty look. A middle aged Indian woman glared back, muttering words under her breath.

_'Control yourself.'_ I turned around, blushing. Being an aggressive weirdo was not blending in. Taking in a deep breath, I slowly let it out through my nostrils._ Just calm down. In and out. In and out._

Ten minutes later, I was shoving my way through the revolving door of 'Straub's Fine Foods'. Snatching up a fresh half-gallon of skim milk, toilet paper, three large tomatoes and a bag of apples, I quietly made my way through and left the store without any further incidents. The way back was just as nerve racking, and I looked like a drug-addled lunatic with my dead pan stares and mouth pinched as if I were constantly waiting to puke. If I had eaten anything all day, I might've.

Once I reached the safety of my apartment, I changed out of my rain drenched clothes and set to cleaning and rearranging furniture in the way I'd been meaning to set up since I moved in. It was an effort to make my apartment less appealing to a single slob of an inhabitant, and more hospitable for living company. Chinese food boxes were in the trash, remaining empty wine bottles went in the recycling bin, and toilet paper was actually put on the roll in the bathroom. I couldn't let anyone outside of my immediate family know what kind of horrible messy human being I truly was.

By the time I was finished, it was nine at night, which I knew was far in advance for what seemed to be 1909's nightly schedule of eleven thirty or so. I got ready anyways. Placing a Chopin album featuring his Nocturnes in the stereo player, I started playing it early with 'Nocturne No.20 C# Minor Piano' tittering through the apartment.

Humming to myself in sync with the music, I changed for the third time that day out of my apartment cleaning clothes, and into a cream colored sleeveless shirt, tucked into an accordion pale pink skirt swishing just above my knees. It seemed appropriate enough. I let my hair fall in loose curls down my back, and applied only a few swipes of mascara.

As I dabbed a bit of perfume on my wrists in the bathroom, I heard a slow rapping at the door. Alarmed, I looked at the time on my phone. It was 9:34. She was early.

_Very_ early.

Excitedly, I ran over to the wall where my shoes were, slipped into a pair of black flats and made my way to the living room. Twenty four years old, and here I was all ecstatic over an evening listening to classical music with an elderly woman. I pushed a lock of hair behind my ears and opened the door, smiling widely.

And there in my entrance, stood Jonathan Crane. Sans tie and sweater vest, Rachmaninov album and letter in hand. I stood there, dumbfounded and smile still plastered to my face. One of my ears began to ring from the blood rushing to them rapidly.

"Dear 1809..." He spoke slowly, pausing to look to the open note in his palm. Running his tongue against the bottom of his top teeth with the slightest of smiles, his eyes snapped to me with a predatory glint. "...thank you for the invitation."

_Fuck._


	7. chapter o6

Disclaimer: Nolanverse and DC characters/settings are not mine. Let's get on with it, shall we?

* * *

Chopin would never play in my presence again without chills running down my spine. In fact, I probably would have to discard classical music altogether and pick another genre to avoid post traumatic stress. This was my 'A Clockwork Orange' moment, and Jonathan Crane was my Ludovico technique.

I could attest to this, as 'Nocturnes' was still playing, and I already wanted to throw myself off the balcony.

Seconds passed, and I merely stared as Crane's eyebrows shot up in a pitying look, his mouth growing into an irritatingly smug smile. "…I can't help but feel that you were expecting someone else," He said slowly, his eyes glacial and penetrating. "You don't seem very pleased."

_'Don't let him throw you off. If you trip he'll drive you straight into the ground.'_

Tilting my head, I thickly swallowed and spread an imitation of a warm smile that tore at the corners of my lips. "Oh, no, this… is a bit serendipitous, really." I forced, my voice lilting higher than usual. Carefully controlled fingers smoothed my skirt against my thighs, in an attempt to stop their trembling. His eyes flicked to them momentarily, then back to me in a dangerous haze. Folding the note in his hand, he turned the album in between his palms and spoke in a tone that grazed steel. "Serendipity is a bit of an exaggerated term, considering our… circumstances."

He wasn't easy to deflect. Looking him straight in the eye, I kept the smile plastered to my face and gently laid a hand against the door jamb. "Circumstances?" I asked, giving him a questioning look. Eyes narrowing by a mere fraction, his look said it all.

_Stop playing._

Like _hell_ I would, all bets were off. The prince of dickness found my front door, and I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of a hunt. I could feel the back of my neck getting hot. Did the air conditioning stop working in my apartment?

"Actually, I had considered paying another visit to Arkham on Friday." I breathed, adjusting the collar of my shirt absent-mindedly. I was touching my clothes too much. Quickly at that thought, I brought my fidgeting hand back down to my side.

That was a blatant lie, but I wasn't much of an on-the-spot thinker. Unless he was going to directly contradict me by citing his hitman's record of my grocery list, I could get away with it.

Unfortunately, calling out my motives and making me dig a deeper hole wasn't out of his capabilities. He placed a hand on the door jamb, right above mine, and leaned forward in a menacing hover. That incisive look was now inches from my face, near enough that I could feel my skin tingling from the closeness.

"I can't help but wonder, after our less than favorable encounters… _why_ you would feel the need."

The challenge was presented, and I had to take a leap. I let my gaze slowly fall to the floor, consciously biting my lip and toying with the edge of my skirt. It was time to scare him off.

Swallowing hard and straightening my back, I pushed my chest forward slightly, and parted my lips in what I hoped was more alluring than ridiculous. I could only hope the shock and fear of him showing up unexpectedly could mask as timidity in the trepidation of my voice.

"Honestly, I... hate the idea of us fighting forever. Despite our disagreements, we do seem to share interests. A love of beautiful music." I avoided his vicious stare and leaned even closer, slightly batting my lashes and cursing myself for not putting that extra coat of mascara on. "And because of that, I was hoping, perhaps…" Looking up to him with hooded eyes, and giving a throaty edge to my voice, I saw his eyebrows half furrow in hesitation.

"... we could come to some sort of harmony. An accord. "

"An accord." He said slowly, meeting my eyes, then looking over my shoulder in thought. I shuffled uncomfortably, watching him deliberate while being far too physically close. My pulse raced as I prayed to the thin amount of air between us.

_Come on, awkward boy. We both know how much you hate my guts. Excuse yourself out of my sloppy advances, and go back upstairs to call your hitman while I pack my things and run._

Then, quick as a flash, he had reached some sort of solution deep in the depths of his mind. I saw it click. My stomach dropped as his expression begin to mirror mine. Straightening to his full height, he looked at me with renewed purpose in his eyes.

Extending an upturned palm towards me, he spoke in a calculating tone. "Well then, I suggest we celebrate this new consensus accordingly."

I stared at his outstretched hand a moment too long, and placed mine in his before anything I'd put forward could be undone. Long fingers clasped over mine, and I couldn't help but be startled at how warm his palm was. My hands were ice cold. Dragging my eyes upward, I saw a look of pure pleasure at my thinly veiled discomfort dancing in his unwavering stare.

"Are you going to invite me in, Winifred?"

_He said my name. He's never said my name._

A scream caught in my throat, and I trapped it there. "Of course," I nearly squeaked, stepping back and pulling him in. Actually, I was trying to smoothly pull my hand out of his grasp, but he was holding on firmly. The piano solo in the air around us could have relaxed the environment, almost charmed it, really. I couldn't help but find it jarring and creepy in this situation. When he closed the door behind him, he finally let go. I involuntarily flexed my fingers, as if checking their proper functioning.

He surveyed the sparse furniture, surmising out loud. "You live alone."

That struck an annoyed note in me, as he seemed surprised. "And _you_ live with your grandmother." I shot, immediately regretting the break in my flimsy façade. I lifted a curved index finger to my mouth, nipping it to suppress a squeal.

A twitch etched in his jaw at the word 'grandmother'. If I wasn't trying to keep him happy before I could kick him out, I would've given myself a pat on the back as I saw his mouth set into a fine line. Letting a slow sigh out through his nose, he threw a glance to the floor and adjusted his glasses. "You must be referring to Elena."

"Elena?" I repeated the name semi-curiously. Turning his head upwards, he sent a dead pan stare right through me.

"She works for my superiors, occasionally delivering sample amounts of supplies to me for my experiments. Immigrated quite recently from Italy, never really learned any english, but she says 'Yes' to everything." His lip curled as he spoke in a patronizing tone. "If only others knew how having that sort of outlook on life seems to be _easier_ for everyone."

I didn't react to his jab, as he was struggling to maintain his veneer of affinity as well. We were two cats pawing at each other between a sliding glass door. What really jarred me was everything else he just unveiled to me.

So those brown bags that old woman had weren't groceries. And _experiments_? A slick dread passed through me, making my toes curl as I hit the realization:

_He was the one killing those patients._

My mouth had subconsciously formed an 'o' of realization. "…Oh, I see." I said stiffly. He blinked slowly, looking expectantly satisfied.

_'He's telling me things I'm not supposed to know. Red flag, red flag, red flag-'_

"I'm… gonna get us some wine," I gestured a thumb to the kitchen, pressing my lips into an attempt of a smile. Turning on my heels, I quickly walked out of his line of sight. As I entered the kitchen, I clapped a hand over my mouth to smother the scream I wanted to let out, desperately looking around the kitchen for something to defend myself with.

It had been almost a month in my apartment, and I _still_ hadn't bought a proper knife set. _Fuck me._

I opened the drawers one by one, most of them empty with a stray utensil or soy sauce packet rattling alone inside. The corkscrew lay in the bottom drawer, which I pulled out and closely examined. It was a basic model, the sharp, curved worm merely attached to a small wooden handle that I could easily cover in my palm. If I held it between my middle and ring fingers, I could get a jab or two in…

And then I saw a small knife I used to cook with, laying next to the toaster. Non-serrated, dull, but pointy. I reached for it, then looked up and saw Crane's reflection in the small window above my kitchen sink.

"Can't decide on the vintage?"

My heart stopped and I turned to see him standing in the kitchen doorway, eyebrows raised. He seemed more composed, as if he had just made a decision on something. Not wanting to let the moment of silence become awkward, I opened the refrigerator and quickly grabbed an unopened wine bottle from the back.

"Pinot Grigio, 2004." I read the label aloud, glancing to him and flashing another stupid smile. Setting the bottle down, I opened the cabinet doors with my left hand to get two wine glasses, right hand still palming my tiny weapon of choice. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him step closer, placing the album case down on the counter. My hand clenched tighter around the corkscrew.

"I'm curious, Winifred."

I turned my head in his direction as I set the wine glasses on the counter. Jonathan Crane had a grin on his face, and it spoke volumes.

"What does a girl who lives around constant death fear?"

Pulling a half-smile, I blinked back images of that dream that his question recalled within me. "Not much." I stated simply, peeling the foil off the top of the bottle. Taking another step closer, he dragged two fingers against the countertop. "The dark?" He offered. Half-focusing on the foil, I tore it wrong due to shaking fingers. I cursed under my breath, and took another quick glance at the knife.

"No." I said simply without any charm or charisma. This guessing game was stupid, and he was far from being the first person who tried to figure out what freaked out an embalmer. If he said "blood" next, I was just going to go for it and stab him.

"Being forgotten?"

Without notice, he was right behind me. I felt fingertips graze the top of my left shoulder. Alarmed deep within, I stopped fiddling with the wine bottle and set my hands down on the counter, clenching them tightly.

"There's a saying that you die twice," I answered quietly, my mouth run dry. "Once when your heart stops..." I could feel his fingers slowly trace their way from the curve of my left shoulder down to my wrist, his thumb settling firm against my pulse. I stifled a sharp intake of breath, loathing the warming sensation his touch stimulated.

"...and once more when someone says your name for the last time." My voice was a hair's breadth above a whisper. His other hand pressed into the small of my back, dragging up into the nape of my neck and anchoring just behind my right ear with a slightly firm grasp of hair. Tugging my head back at an angle towards him, my neck was exposed as he bent over, drinking in the sight of my yielding, panicking form.

His gaze raked over me, and in that moment I saw a flash of undisciplined, unplanned desire in his eyes. As soon as they met mine, they hardened over.

"Everyone is forgotten." My chest was heaving from sheer exhaustion of this unholy mixture of want and dread coursing through me. "Before you know it, everyone you know will just be a file of papers in the back room of a funeral home."

He made a sound as if stumped, reaching a hand up and tracing the edge of my bottom lip with his thumb. I thought I was going dizzy.

"Perhaps I'm asking the question the wrong way." Running his tongue across his bottom lip, he bit it gently in thought as his eyes narrowed. "Perhaps... it's what you _haven't_ forgotten?"

And then I saw it. Right in the corner of his smile.

It was the shadow of a sneer.

_'He knows something.'_ My collar was getting hot again, and it wasn't just the way he was caressing me. I felt like an animal being prepped for slaughter. He leaned forward, lips grazing my ear.

"…I think what you fear most is your _past_."

A breath hitched in my throat. "No," I forced out, barely able to breathe from my own paralyzing dread. I could feel the warmth radiating from his body, his breath ghosting over my neck.

"Liar." He said cooly. Turning me around roughly to face him, he placed his arms on either side of me, barring me in. My thighs instinctively clamped together, but were then separated by a leg as he moved closer to me, speaking in an indulgent tone.

"Winifred Rothschild, Involuntary Confinement, patient 300476. You were committed to Arkham two years ago, after a failed suicide attempt."

My stomach began to eat itself as my eyes widened, mouth dropping open by a fraction. This wasn't just an invasion of my home. He had permeated down to that hidden part of me, and stripped me bare.

How _dare_ he.

He continued, as if musing aloud to himself. "I read the transcripts of your therapy sessions. Loving and supportive family, no history of addictions or mental illness… a twin brother who was a bit of an overachiever, but nothing to put you in his shadows." Looking back down to me, he drank in the sight of angry tears forming in the corners of my eyes.

"I just, couldn't, seem to find the trigger."

The blood in my veins started to boil. I could never have imagined to hate someone as much as I did right now. Someone had to stop him.

I had to stop him.

The knife was still there, and it called to me as his palm resting against my collarbone slid down, between my breasts and down my stomach, down to where he could grasp a handful of my skirt and hitched it high enough to expose most of my left thigh. He spoke close enough that his lips brushed my neck.

"Something happened. Something awful enough to make you… snap."

Without hesitation, I reached under him and grabbed the knife off the counter. I made a swipe at him with it, but his hand caught me by the wrist and gripped hard. Hard enough to make me gasp in pain and drop the knife, hearing it clatter to the floor.

He glanced down to the floor, eyes flicking back up to me lazily. I could hear a ragged edge to his voice.

"That's better."

I lashed out with the other hand, corkscrew between my knuckles. He turned his face in time to avoid jabbing of an eye, but it scratched him right across the cheek. Putting a finger to the injured area and examining the blood, he looked to me with a glint of excitement. With both hands, he shoved me hard onto the floor. It knocked the air out of me. I heaved a deep breath as panic and adrenaline coursed through me, but just as I propped myself up on my elbows, he knelt down and grabbed my shoulders, pushing me firmly against the floor.

"Was it really that _awful_?" He asked, void of emotion.

"Fuck off!" I shouted, trying to squirm out from under him. I couldn't help but look at his face then, taking in the sight of Jonathan Crane. As I saw the intensity of his gaze, I swore right there and then that he was on the verge of being unhinged.

"I've never told anyone," I choked, my heart sitting at the base of my throat. "If there would ever be a first, it would _never_ be _you_."

Letting out a scoff, he merely shrugged. "Fair enough. Some secrets are best taken to the grave."

He reached into his pocket for something. I gasped, and immediately tried to shove him away from me. After a moment of struggling, a stabbing pain erupted in my left hip. I cried out, the pain heightening even further. With both hands and my right knee, I pushed him off me, and there was a clatter of plastic on the tile.

If I could have pushed myself up and run, I would've, but my body had lost most coordination through fatigue. I turned my head to see an empty syringe, the needle red with blood. Grasping at my thigh, I felt wetness. My eyes snapped to Jonathan Crane straightening himself out.

"High dose of analgesic, schedule ll controlled substance." Running a hand through his hair, he replaced his glasses and stared at me with a look of complete detachment. "You won't suffer. Consider it reciprocity for your hospitable manners."

"Wh-what?" My train of thought was starting to unravel, and I could feel my cheeks turning warm. I felt a rush of relaxation begin to wash over me. Somewhere deep inside, I knew this feeling.

Crouching down, elbows on his knees, he tilted his head in a patronizing look. "_Opioids_, Winifred. I think that's something you're familiar with. You made this too easy." He pulled an empty prescription bottle with a badly torn off label from his pocket, popping off the top and tossing on the floor a few feet from my reach. I heard the clatter of plastic bounce and roll. It made my head spin.

He picked up the syringe off the floor, and looked down at me. If there was anything human there, I couldn't see it. Maybe it was the drugs clouding my perception. I severely doubted it.

"Pity you had to crack so easily. I'm sure we could have re conciliated the night away fantastically." Palming the syringe, he walked away without so much as a further glance.

_Fucking prick._

I was so heavy. My arms were made of lead. Swiping at the tile was all I could manage, and I couldn't even feel the smoothness of it. My lips were numb, biting them didn't revive sensation. Or perhaps I wasn't even biting at all.

This was it. I didn't even feel like I was breathing. Swollen lids closed shut, and the last thing I saw were the fluorescent lights on the ceiling fading into darkness.


	8. chapter o7

Disclaimer: Nolanverse and DC characters/settings are not mine. A longer chapter to treat you with, dear reader, as things begin to unravel.

* * *

There was frost in my hair, and a breeze stung my skin as it permeated the drenched shirt stuck to my body. I gasped from the cold, eyes cracking open to see the riverbank at my feet. Looking down, I saw small waves from the edge of the river lapping at my boots, and felt a lurch deep in my stomach. My mouth was full of saliva, tongue thick and dragging along the roof of my mouth. I could only rasp out in ragged breaths, clawing at the dirt and rocks as I struggled to keep the scalding bile in my throat.

Suddenly, two hands took ahold of my face. They belonged to a middle-aged man with a greying beard and camouflage baseball cap, eyes wide and panicking.

"Missy, you stay awake! Don't go taking a nap, you hear?" He said loudly, a little too close to my face. My head lolled to the side, and all I could do was gag a cough. Deep heaves in my chest rattled painfully, as my lungs had just evacuated water. They felt like they were on fire. Fingers pinched my cheeks, and I swatted them away, closing my eyes.

_Go away._

"You best listen to me!"

_GO AWAY._ Grabbing his hands, I tried desperately to pull them away from my face. I just wanted to be left alone, was it so hard to be left alone?!

"Missy!… Missy!" His voice became distant, and dropped to a deeper and much more familiar voice.

"Missy… _Freddie!_"

That sound reached directly into my core.

_Dad._

Every cell of my body shook, and snapped into full consciousness. My eyes immediately opened, and when I did I invited the worst headache I had ever experienced in my entire life. It was too bright. Everything was so white. Someone was stroking my cheek, which was wet with tears of exhaustion.

Blurred vision cleared as my pupils dilated, seeing my father's ruddy face standing over me. His eyes were red, dark circles shading the area around his eyes and worry lines now permanently etched into his forehead. Someone let out a half shriek, and I turned my stiff neck to see my mother lurch over the plastic rails of the hospital bed, hands clapped to her mouth and her shoulders shaking uncontrollably. At the foot of the bed, between my parents, Sam stood in a stiff manner, holding an emotionless expression with Roger beside him. Gripping one of Sam's hands tightly, Roger's eyes were directed to the floor.

Two years. Completely undone.

Tears filled my father's eyes, and he clenched his jaw to prevent a sob, letting it rack in his chest. "… Why, Freddie?" The voice in his question was so tired, so close to breaking. I lifted a hand and grasped onto my father's wrist, meeting his gaze and murmuring softly.

"No... I didn't.."

A look of wonder panned across his face. Licking my chapped lips, I blinked slowly and crooked an index finger toward my leg. Of course, it was covered up under the sheets, but the throbbing pain emanating from it indicated there was some sort of trauma there. Leaning closer, he turned an ear towards me and spoke softly.

"What?"

I gripped his wrist tighter, my skin itching from the medical tape securing the IV needle in the back of my hand. "Dad, it wasn't-"

"She woke up, did she?"

All eyes turned to the man in the doorway, sporting a white coat over a light blue shirt and tie, stethoscope slung around his neck, and greying sideburns. All strong indications that he was a seasoned physician. As he stepped inside, his bright green eyes turned towards my father in an enlightened look. Swallowing hard, I could feel blood rush to my face as he redirected his attention towards me, eyebrows knitting together for a brief moment before smoothing out in a professional gloss over.

I remembered him. Doctor Issac Milton, the same man who looked after me in recovery the last time I was here. Shamefully, I averted my eyes to the bed sheets. Taking in a deep breath, my father sniffed loudly and stood up from the side of my hospital bed. "Just a minute or two ago."

Doctor Milton nodded, approaching us closer with a clipboard in his hands. Lifting the edge of a page and glancing at the information scribbled across, he cleared his throat and spoke in a more formal tone.

"Unfortunately, we'll have to go through the same procedure as last time. We filed the incident with Arkham. As soon as she's recovered, she'll have to be committed for at least seventy-two hours for a full evaluation."

My eyes widened, and I squeezed my father's arm hard enough that he turned his head towards me with a curious look. I could feel my whole body start to tremble.

_No._

Standing to full height, my mother looked to him and nodded solemnly. "We understand," she accepted in a low voice. I began to shake my head, and immediately regretted it as my skull swam in a giant wave of agonizing pain, a pounding rhythm racking deep inside. Shooting me an apologetic smile, Doctor Milton took a small white pamphlet out from under the papers in his clipboard. "In fact, one of the directors contacted us, concerning her history and repeated incident. It's recommended that an experimental therapy be used for her." He extended the pamphlet to my mother, who stared at it for a moment before taking it.

"… What 'experimental therapy'?" My mother asked, flipping open the pages and adjusting the glasses on her nose.

Folding his hands over, he spoke with an undertone that sounded almost like praise. "It's a combination of psychiatry and counseling, involving sessions of hypnotherapy with the aid of medication. Implemented for about a year now with very successful results by the director of the program, Dr. Jonathan Crane. He's an excellent colleague of mine, a brilliant man. One of Arkham's best."

_Oh God._

He found out I was still alive.

And now he was trying to entrap me as a plaything in his menagerie of steel and concrete. Before I could control myself, my lungs gave out an involuntary scream.

"Freddie, please!" Pinning me down by my arms, my father pleaded as I writhed against the bed, twisting and turning like hell. I could hear Milton call for help, and immediately began to calm myself down before any further measures were taken. I couldn't go back to Arkham, not in this way. I was wholly defenseless. I wasn't strong enough.

He'd be ruthless.

"They'll kill me… they'll kill me…" My voice was just above a whisper, hyperventilating in short bursts of breath. My father leaned in close and spoke low against my cheek. I could feel the scratch of his beard.

"Who's '_they_'?"

Rapid spurts of air passed my lips, but nothing more. I screwed my eyes shut, avoiding what I knew was his interrogating stare shooting right at me in close range. His grip tightened around my arms, and I felt him fall back and shift away from me.

"We need five minutes alone, Issac."

I didn't see Milton leave, but I heard the door close. Wiping my nose with the back of my non-IV hand, I slowly opened an eye to all three of my immediate family huddled around the bed. Roger was now sitting in the corner of the room, pretending to be interested in the local news on the small television against the wall. A cold sweat had broken over me in the panic. I put a shaky hand against my chest, startled at feeling the gown directly on my skin.

"… Where's my shirt?" I asked, stiff with discomfort.

"The paramedics cut your shirt to give you CPR." Sam said, his tone hollow. As I looked to him, my eyes widened in realization:

"You found me, didn't you?"

Sam pushed himself off the rail of the bed and ran a hand through his hair agitatedly. "You never told me what you wanted for dinner. I went to your place with something anyways."

"Lucky for me, you were the spare key holder." I remarked with a small, bitter grin. He mirrored it, forcing a scoff of a laugh.

"_Lucky_…"

The smile fell off my face as I turned to my father, swallowing hard. "… I didn't try again. Not this time."

His gaze met mine, briefly before turning to my mother, who was pale and fighting a scowl. She thought I was lying, and was obviously furious. Sighing heavily, he let go of my arms and shook his head. "I want to believe you, but it's hard, Freddie. You've acted strange for the past two weeks, you hadn't been sleeping, and then you locked yourself up in your apartment for three days, lying about some cold, or something."

What could I say to that? I opened my mouth, but was cut off by Sam's interjection. "She's not lying." Sam forced out. I could see the tension relax off his face. This was something he was obviously holding in. Turning to him, arms crossed, my mother spoke coldly. "How would you know?"

"There were two wine glasses on the counter. She wasn't alone." He said in a calm voice, scrubbing his face tiredly. Both of my parents looked to me, endless questions firing off in their expressions. Only one came to fruition.

"Who did this?"

My mouth clamped shut, opened briefly, then shut again. The key was to tell them enough to believe me, but not enough to pull them in.

"Someone from Arkham. They tried to bribe me, at first."

"For what?" My mother asked, uncrossing her arms. I saw it click in my father's head, then Sam's. "Is this about Williams?" Sam asked, though it was clear from his expression that he really didn't want to know. I simply nodded, and his face scrunched up in horror. As I drew my knees up to my chest, I saw my father visibly swallow before asking the obvious question.

"How much money was there, Freddie?"

"A hundred grand." I rested my forehead against my knee. "Maybe more."

"And," he cleared his throat. "what did you do with it?"

"I gave it back."

"… You gave it back."

"Yeah."

Letting out a slow breath, he put a hand over his eyes and lowered his face. I didn't know how to react, glancing between Sam and my mother, who were just as confused. The silence lasted a beat too long.

"I… thought you would be proud of me."

He spoke, stock-still, and I could only see his bottom lip move. "I can't be proud of you for almost dying... It doesn't matter to me if you go live in a convent, and it doesn't matter to me if you're a mobster's _wife_!" His voice accelerated to a yell. I flinched back, forgetting how long it was since he last scolded me. His old Irish fighting blood was being riled again.

"I only care that my children stay _alive_!"

"That's not true!" I snapped back, feeling tears fill my eyes. "You _always_ do the right thing!"

A smile broke out on his face, though he was still visibly irate. "You know what happened ten years ago, when we opened our doors to the Falcone family? The funeral cost over fifty grand, and they left the building with ten thousand dollars in damage. Do you know what I billed them for?"

I blinked, unsure of what to say.

"Not a cent, because I wasn't going to be stupid." he spat, and in that moment I saw my father the exact way he was back when I was ten, when he knew everything. I didn't understand the morals of reality. Right and wrong were never choices, but measures of cost against self-interest. I swallowed hard.

"That money came from somewhere outside of Arkham." I said slowly, looking to the IV in my hand. "Whatever it is, I scratched the surface of something bigger. Whatever happens now, I _can't_ go back there." Dragging my gaze upwards towards him, I saw a small glint of trepidation in his eyes. Saying nothing, he merely nodded. I laid my head against the pillow as the door opened, Doctor Milton sticking his head back in.

"Five minute break over?"

"Yes." My father said curtly, turning to him with a determined look. Walking over to the doorway, he opened it wider and gestured for Milton to come inside. "We need to talk."

All eyes were on the doctor as he stepped in, giving me a curious look. I turned my head towards my mother, who was staring at a tissue torn to shreds in her hand. Clearing his throat, my father went into funeral director mode and spoke in a solemn tone. "Winifred needs to come home, I think it will suit her better."

Sucking in a breath through his teeth, Milton gave a heavy shrug. "This is out of my hands, Don. This is state law, she has to be committed, and if it's involuntary, that's the way it'll be."

"She isn't asking to go home. _I_ am asking for her to go home." My father's voice dropped lower, almost to a menacing pitch. A pregnant pause filled the air, as Milton mulled this over.

"That doesn't change anything."

_Wrong answer._ I bit my lip, expecting a slightly more violent reaction to come out of my father, but Milton must have seen it on his face before it emerged. "Wait," Milton said quickly, backtracking. Tapping a finger against the clipboard, he spoke slowly, as if thinking on the spot while making a decision. "I'll keep her on the books as recovering, but I have to legally discharge her into Arkham's care in two days. You'll have til nine in the morning on Wednesday to take her to Arkham, or we'll have to send someone to get her. I'm sorry, but she's high risk, and this is all I can do."

The tension in the air lifted, and I heard my father give a forced laugh. "Thank you, Issac."

Milton sounded a bit relieved. "Well… I've known you for twenty plus years, Don."

In those twenty plus years, my father was known for stopping a few fights during funeral services on his own. Usually with one good punch. When I turned to the doctor, he seemed to be giving me a penetrating look. It quickly dissipated as I frowned, and he cleared his throat nervously.

"I'm going to start rearranging some paperwork for this. I'd suggest you go home and get a change of clothes for her, if you're going to take her today." With a quick smile, he turned around smartly and headed out. My mother made a small noise, opening her purse and digging into it immediately.

"I have some gym clothes in the back of the car." She said, pulling out the keys and quickly making her way to the door. Turning to give my father an expectant look, she quickly dabbed the tissue under her nose and sniffed loudly. "Come with me to the car, all this talk of the Mafia is making me nervous."

I could see him fight to not roll his eyes. My mother was a bit overdramatic, but it was something we all learned to live with. As they left the room, I faced Sam and held my hand up, giving a sly grin.

"Come help me get this IV out of my hand."

Pitifully, he blanched at my request. "I think we need a nurse for that."

"Oh, right, we should totally ask one while sneaking me out of the hospital, that won't go unnoticed." I made a waving motion for him to come over. "Come on, stop being a pussy, _embalmer."_

"People who are alive are not the _same_." Sam retorted. "I'll do it," Roger offered simultaneously, standing up. Sam turned to him with a look of betrayal, but said nothing. As Roger approached, I flexed my hand and began to peel off the tape. As the needle wiggled around inside, I groaned from the stinging sensation.

"What do I do?" Roger asked, leaning over and examining my hand as I managed to take off most of the tape. I grabbed a corner of the bed sheet, folding it over and pressing it against the top of my hand. "Just pull it out." I said, looking away.

"Right now?"

"Yes!" I nearly shouted. Roger place a hand on top of mine to steady himself. As he held the plastic cap at the end and pulled out, I sucked in a sharp breath from the pain. "Fuck!"

"Damn it, Roger!" Sam snapped.

"I'm sorry!" Roger whined, putting his hands in the air and backing up as soon as the needle was out. I kept pressure on my hand, letting a shudder run down my back and looking to Roger with a forced smile.

"Thanks, Roger."

"Sure." He nodded grimly, putting his hands on his hips and stepping back next to Sam. As I pulled back the sheets and examined the small bead of blood bubbling to the surface, I let out a small sigh of relief.

"So... what are you going to do?" Roger asked hesitantly. I gave a small shrug, placing a finger on top of the puncture wound, which was throbbing in time with my heart pulse.

"I have to leave Gotham."

* * *

Fresh clothes laid in my lap, as I sat perched off the edge of the bed, the side rails lowered. Sam and Roger had already left, promising to be at the house later that night. My mother put a hand against my cheek, stroking it with her thumb as my father waited agitatedly by the door.

"Meet us downstairs, and we'll go straight home and figure this out." Giving me a kiss on my forehead, she took her purse and walked out the door, my father giving me a wink as he closed it shut. I stared down to the clothes in my lap, and began to undress.

The cold air of the room made me shudder as I peeled off the hospital gown, goosebumps erupting on my skin. Quickly, I stood up and shimmied out of my skirt, examining the large bruise on my left thigh.

_'Asshole really stabbed me good.'_

I yanked on the tight black gym shorts and pulled the loose, grey sweatshirt over my head. The neckline hung off one shoulder, which might have passed off as cute, if I didn't look so sleep deprived and deranged. Lacing on the purple sneakers, I grabbed my skirt and balled it up in my fist as I stood on weak legs and opened the door.

As soon as I stepped out, I took one look down the hall and immediately stepped back inside, going into sudden cardiac arrest.

Jonathan Crane was in Gotham General Hospital. Strolling down the corridor in plain view, past the nurses and patients, he was looking down at a packet of papers in his hand. And he was headed in the direction of my room. As I stumbled back, my legs gave out from shock, and I fell on my bruised hip with an agonizing thud. Sucking in a sharp breath, I looked around wildly for an escape.

_'Can't jump out the window. Go under the bed.'_

Crawling hastily to the opposite side of the bed, I leaned on my hands and knees to take a look at the space underneath. The lowered rails blocked any possible way to get under unless I was the size of a four year old. As I heard footsteps approaching, I merely flattened myself against the linoleum floor, the tile cold and mocking.

_'Hide and Seek champion of second grade, all for nothing.'_ Turning my face against the glossy floor, my stomach clenched as I saw black leather shoes pass into the doorway. Then stop.

I'd dropped my skirt, and it was still on the floor. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck-

My hip was throbbing, and I could hear a marching sound in my ear as my heart pumped blood to all my extremities in an effort to keep my whole body from freezing up. Why was he here? Couldn't he wait til fucking Wednesday to torture me? I slid silently against the floor as ebony oxfords made their way over to the crumpled pile of rose chiffon, pausing again in front of it.

A few steps forward, and he'd see me crouched by the bed with the most hostile appearance, tangled russet hair and snarling expression. I'd lunge for him. I wasn't going to die. Again.

In my mother's gym clothes.

Slowly, I felt my body begin to tense. Just as I debated whether or not to leap out and knock him over, Dr. Milton's voice carried into the room, as did brown loafers.

"Her family is downstairs."

"And where is she? In the nude, I presume?" I heard shuffling of sheets, which I assumed to be Crane holding up the hospital gown for Doctor Milton to see. I clasped a hand to my breasts, feeling my face turn hot.

_'Stop touching my shit, you creep.'_

I couldn't help but feel betrayed by Milton. If I hadn't gone through this whole mess, I might've been a bit alarmed at how experienced he was at being deceptive. But, that's how all of Gotham was. A city of liars and tricksters, a refuge if a confidant and a threat if an enemy. Strangely, I was losing my grip on who was playing what role.

Milton's voice was tight. "Most likely with her family, I didn't think she would be able to leave the room as quickly."

"And why is she downstairs?" Crane asked, a tone of curiosity laced with irritation.

Hesitantly, Milton admitted his own cross betrayal. "I... let her family take her home."

The sudden edge in Crane's voice was so sharp it made me flinch. "... Really?"

It was pitiful hearing Milton as he tried to explain himself. "You don't understand, I had to give Don time, he's not someone to aggravate-"

"Neither am I." Crane snapped. "This is not part of the agreement that was made. When I request a patient, they are _given_ to me."

There was a deep sigh, followed by a moment of silence. "… Look, couldn't you just pick some other patient on the floor this time? Winifred is a lovely girl, but her family is too involved to really-"

"This is not some petty _infatuation_," Crane cut him off, his voice dripping with contempt. "This is damage control."

Nausea began to build up all the way into my throat. I shifted uncomfortably off of my elbow, which was starting to go numb. The pins and needles sensation ran down to my fingertips, and I closed my eyes briefly as dizziness swirled itself around my consciousness. Whatever they used to counter the drugs, it was fresh in my system and wreaking havoc on my physical control.

I couldn't stay like this for long. Five more minutes, and I could possibly pass out again on the floor.

"I'll make sure that we send someone for her on Wednesday, okay? Multiple people if we have to. Don't worry, we have state legislation to back us up."

I started to feel light headed from controlling the sound of my breathing. Crane slowly stepped towards Milton, and spoke in a threatening voice that I was all too familiar with.

"Do not fool yourself with the illusion of power from the state. If she is not in my possession by Wednesday, violating code will be the least of your worries."

With that, he walked out. Milton quickly followed, and I collapsed fully against the floor in relaxed tension. After counting to a hundred slowly in my head, I peeled myself off the linoleum, limbs shaking uncontrollably.

"Did you get all that?"

_That voice._

I froze. Slowly leaning back down, I saw shoes facing towards my direction, on the opposite side of the bed.

They were black oxfords.

Sucking in a sharp gasp, I desperately pushed myself up on my elbows and grabbed at the plastic rails. As I pulled myself up, I looked around wildly, wobbling in place.

The room was empty now.

"Shit," I muttered under my breath, putting a hand against my chest to steady myself. Immediately, I headed for the door. I stuck my head quickly in and out of the room, and saw the coast was clear. As I made my way down the hall, I kept my eyes constant at head level while nearing the elevators. But I knew better. Passing up the elevators, I shoved open the door to the stairwell and made my descent.

I nearly tripped on the way down three flights of stairs, knees weak and ready to give out at any moment. Heavily breathing from exhaustion and fear, when I reached the exit, I carefully opened the door, looking around. The lobby was void of anyone recognizable. I crossed my arms and walked briskly on my way out to the automatic sliding doors, seeing my parent's black car sitting in the drop off path in front of the parking lot. As I made my way over, my mind ran through the situation just now, over and over.

Why would he do all that if he knew I was in the room? Was it punishment to compromise Milton for letting me go? I didn't want to admit it to myself, but I thought I knew why.

He wanted me to know just how fucked I was, how little control I had of this situation. When I got inside the car, I slammed the door shut. My mother turned around, giving me a hard look.

"Freddie, what's wrong?"

"Just drive," I choked out, clicking in my seatbelt and leaning back against the seat. As the gas hummed through the engine, I turned my head and looked out the window.

He was standing just outside the entrance, dark suitcase in hand and looking straight back at me. I felt my blood freeze and spun back around. Looking at the time on the car's radio, it read exactly noon.

I had thirty-five hours to leave Gotham.


	9. chapter o8

"So... what are we going to do?"

We all sat in the parlor, my parents sitting on one couch, Sam and Roger in another, while I perched sideways on an overstuffed chair in between everyone. Looking back and forth nervously, I bit my lip and continued to speak in a careful tone.

"I was thinking, you know, Aunt Carol in Carthage was looking for a tenant." I suggested lightly. Carthage was a good six hours northwest from Gotham, the second largest city in the state. Far enough to be considered escape, but not too far to look cowardly.

"And what about your apartment? All your things are still there." Sam said, raising an eyebrow. Fiddling with my thumbs, I shook my head. "I'll keep paying for the apartment, until the lease runs up next year. By then I'll know what to do with everything inside."

Like hell I was going back there for anything, but I wouldn't let the lease default when I had just secured it under my name. Crane may have failed to kill me, but he wouldn't kill my credit score either. My father let out a heavy sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he spoke.

"First things first... no more interactions with Arkham, outside of normal procedures. If we're called on a case, we get in, and get out. Only call to confirm release of bodies, and for doctors to sign death certificates."

"But what if we get more cases like Williams?" I prodded, feeling a stir of anger inside of me. He quenched it with a fierce look of his own, hands clenching tightly.

"You will not be here, and therefore are not part of this discussion."

"Of course," I said hotly, crossing my legs over the arm of the chair. It didn't matter anyways, I doubted my dearest Arkham supervisor would be dumb enough to repeat that mistake. Clearing his throat, my father continued.

"I've already spoken with Carol, and she agreed to let you stay the first month for free, but you'll have to find work after then. I doubt that will be difficult," scratching his beard, he looked upwards thoughtfully. "There aren't that many skilled embalmers in Carthage."

I shrugged, nodding in agreement. "Okay, that's fine with me. When do I leave?"

"Your Uncle Ernel will be here Wednesday around five in the morning, as I'm guessing Gotham General will send someone around seven or eight."

That was the other part of the discussion everyone wanted to avoid. Shifting uncomfortably, I looked to my mother apologetically as I asked the unavoidable question.

"What are you going to tell them?"

"That you ran away, obviously." Sam answered, lips quirking into a semi-smirk. It wouldn't have been the first time I was reported for sneaking out. I always assumed Sam was born with me as compensation for my difficult behavior. Aside from the same birthday, vaguely similar physical characteristics, and a lifelong crush on Bruce Campbell, we were nothing alike.

"Alright, I guess that settles it then." Turning around in the chair into an upright sitting position, I stood up and stretched. It was already ten in the evening, I was full of leftover vegetable lasagna, and everyone seemed to want to continue this conversation without my presence. I couldn't blame them, as they were all sufficiently frustrated by the slow trickle of information I was giving them. Sticking to my guns, I kept my mouth shut as I kissed everyone goodnight and went to the main viewing room, where I was sleeping for the night.

The viewing room looked like a perfect blend of a church chapel and a parlor. It was long and wide, an ideal amount of space to set up rows of chairs for a service, with dark hardwood flooring. Thick burgundy drapes centered the wall at the end of the room, bordered by two torchiere lamps about six feet apart, the space between them being where the casket would normally be positioned. Four wall chandeliers on each side cast of the chapel cast an incandescent glow to the room, and gave a sort of elegance to the heavy atmosphere.

Aside from a parlor chair near the entrance and a coffee table along side it for water, two couches were situated on each side of the nearly empty room. Usually for the family to sit during the viewing, one of them was going to be where I crashed for the night. I knew from experience that the couch on the left was older and therefore much more comfortable. Heaving myself into the cushions, I wiggled out of my mother's exercise shorts and pulled the blanket my mother provided up to my neck.

I had been asked all my life how one could sleep and eat where the dead lay, and if I had ever seen a ghost. The first answer was easy; I had to eat and sleep somewhere, and if someone's grandmother happened to be laying in state in the next room, it didn't make much of a difference to me. The other, of course, was a bit trickier.

Ghosts were never imagined in me as some monster tossing people across rooms, or a sheet-like child asking for a friend. They were memories that couldn't be erased, personages so ingrained, they could be invoked with just a scent, or an old photo.

And there were ghosts that yearned to be invoked, embryonic things of potential that craved consummation, to be realized. I had seen both, and they haunted me equally. In the day, every young boy's face had hazel eyes and a wry smile. In the night, every lingering shadow had blue eyes and eager hands.

* * *

"What are you doing back here?"

I spun on my heel, looking at Sam with a hard stare as I bent over an open filing cabinet, a fresh cup of black tea in my other hand. "Last time I checked, this was Rothschild Funeral Homes, and my last name is Rothschild." I said sarcastically, deftly pulling out Timothy William's file. Closing the cabinet, I wobbled the file in my hand as I gave Sam a questioning look.

"… Did you ever hear from the medical examiner's?"

Scratching his chin, he fought a yawn. "No, I hadn't called anyone yet. You should get them on the phone, it's already ten in the morning. Williams should've been assigned an investigator by yesterday."

Nodding, I tightened my grip on Williams' file and walked out of the room.

"Wait, Freddie." Sam hissed loudly. I turned around, frowning at his serious look. "What?"

"Don't tell Dad what you're doing, I think he's trying to make sure you get out of here as quietly as possible." He warned, craning his neck to make sure there wasn't anyone coming down the hall. Smiling, I winked gratefully.

"Alright, I'll keep that in mind."

I shut the prep room door, sitting at my desk and dialing the Gotham medical examiner's main office number. Tapping a pen in my hand against the desk as the phone rang, I felt a pang of anticipation in my stomach for the results of the autopsy. Even if I wasn't going to be around for the following investigation, just the thought of it sent warm fuzzy feelings through my body.

_"Gotham Medical Examiner, this is Aliyah."_

I cleared my throat, pushing lovely thoughts of Jonathan Crane behind bars out of my head. "Hello, my name's Winifred, from Rothschild Funeral Homes." Pushing a lock of hair behind my ear, I turned the file over in my hand and glanced over the information scribbled on the folder. "I'm calling to see who has been assigned to Timothy Williams for a requested autopsy."

_"Just a second, please."_ Classical music faded out of the phone as she put me on hold. It was some sappy composition by Beethoven, but it still made me internally gag. After a minute or two, she came back on the line.

_"…I'm sorry, but I can't find any record of a Timothy Williams."_

"Could you check again? We sent him to the building on Saturday." I said irritatedly, lightly feeling the sore spot on my thigh. Another few minutes passed by as I was put on hold, and when she came back, her voice strained with exasperation.

_"I just checked again and asked several people who were here Saturday, and they said you never came by. You should check with your removal people."_

Of course this would happen. "Thank you," I answered bitterly, hanging up the phone and immediately dialing James' number. He answered by the second ring, no hint of concern in his voice whatsoever.

_"Hey Freddie, what d'you need?"_

"I need to know where the _hell_ you dropped off Timothy Williams on Saturday." I snapped, anger and denial coursing through me. It had to be James, there was no way the medical examiner's could be penetrated so easily.

_"At the M.E., like you said,"_ his voice squeaked a bit in fear from my snarling. _"I signed him in and everything, check the file, I made a copy I swear."_

Furiously flipping through the papers, I found the release form to the examiner, but there was only a vague signature on the bottom, no printed name nor time or date given. Internally groaning, I tried to suppress the nastiness in my voice. "… They're supposed to put more than a signature on the form, James."

_"I-I didn't know, they said it was fine."_

"Who said it was fine?"

A pause. _"The man at the receiving station?"_

"And would you happen to remember this man's name?" Folding the file shut, I ran a finger over it and closed my eyes. I could feel a headache starting to bloom at the base of my skull.

_"No, he didn't say."_

Letting out a slow breath, I lifted a hand to my face and massaged a temple. "Okay, James. Thank you." Setting the phone down on the desk, I sat for a moment in complete silence, before spinning around in the chair and throwing the file across the room as hard as I could. The file flipped open, papers scattering on the floor as I let out a scream of frustration.

"How the _hell_ can you lose a body?!"

"What's going on?" My father's voice boomed as the door opened and he came inside, eyeing the mess on the ground. Crossing his arms, he turned to me with a stern look.

"What's this about?"

"Timothy Williams is gone." I spoke in a deflated tone, shaking my head. Of course, his reaction was just what Sam had warned me about.

"You shouldn't be calling the M.E., everyone is supposed to think you're still in Gotham General."

"Okay, well, I did it, and this happened, so whatever." I growled, stomping my foot like a three year old. Laying a hand on my shoulder, his words were tight with conflict.

"Perhaps... it's better that way."

"Of course it is." I said tightly. Now there was little to no trace of anything to use against Arkham. In turn, aside from names on papers, there was little evidence against us, either. I felt defeated as a whole, like a buoy left to drift in the ocean without any way to get back. Gotham was an abyss of corruption and filth, and as the hours passed, I couldn't wait to leave it. Of course, I had one last trick up my sleeve.

Turning to look up at him, I rubbed my head tiredly. "I'm... gonna go lay down."

He patted my back firmly, nodding in agreement. "Just make sure to pick up this mess before dinner."

Trudging into the viewing room at a snail's pace, I curled up in the couch furthest from the door, and pulled out a card I had retrieved from my desk. Some state attorney's assistant's card. Despite my father's implicit insistence to let it go, I couldn't help but need to send at least a small, legal "fuck you" at Crane, before I left for good. Dialing the number, I waited anxiously as the phone rang.

_"Hello?"_

"Is this Ms. Karen Conroy?" I asked, turning the card over in my hand.

_"Yes, who is this?"_

"My name's Winifred from Rothschild Funeral Homes, I was the funeral director during your grandfather's service last year." I bit my lip, wondering if that was too abrupt an introduction.

A pause. _"Oh yes! I remember you, I gave you my card that day, didn't I?"_

Oh, good. Time for revenge. Biting back a smile, I continued in a merry tone. "Yes, and I think I need some legal advice on a possible internal issue with Arkham, regarding a certain employee..."

* * *

My time was narrowing quickly. By this time tomorrow, I'd be off starting a new life in Carthage. It was two in the morning, my backpack was in the corner filled with a week's worth of necessities, and I seemed to be counting the hours as they passed by. The stereo player in the corner was reserved for music during services, but it did me good to soothe the anticipation in waiting to leave. I was so ready to leave.

As long as I was in Gotham, I couldn't sleep properly. Things from long ago were beginning to unearth themselves, with the help of my present torturer, and if these direct threats weren't bad enough when I was fully conscious, they were worse at night. It didn't help that constant visions of intimate encounters with my would-be murderer were almost a regular occurrence, and no matter what I did to try and stop it, I couldn't.

Billie Holiday sang mournfully into the night, while I lay outstretched on the couch, uncovered. I had let the blanket fall to the floor, as my body had a thin sheen of sweat from the thick wool. Tree branches cast dancing shadows behind the thin curtains of the windows, their dark figures swaying to the rhythm of Holiday's lament.

_"I'm a fool, to hold you…"_

Eyelids drooping heavily, I put a hand to my chest and let the cool air of the room envelop me. My mind was wrapped in a thick haze of sleep and contemplation, struggling with what I knew, and what I desired. It made me sick to my stomach, that despite everything that had happened, I was still haunted by the fascination of Jonathan Crane's hands.

_"Such a fool, to hold you…"_

Closing my eyes, I let my consciousness settle into itself completely. It was barely a beat before I heard the purr of his voice, something I had become all too familiar with.

"Do strings not soothe you quite as well as they used to?"

Absolute exhaustion granted one strange abilities, slipping into dreams seamlessly apparently being one of them. In my dense haze I pushed myself up, leaning on an elbow and staring into the dark. Hatred burned in my core, as did insatiable want.

"Instrumental music isn't as satisfying as it used to be," I answered slowly, watching his figure appear in the moonlight cast through the window. It was the first time I saw him without his coat jacket; simply dressed in a black buttoned up shirt, tucked into dark khaki slacks, his sleeves neatly rolled up to his elbows. He was hate sex in human form. Damn him if he looked good, and he really did. Damn him to hell.

I leaned my head back, my hair falling against my shoulder. Speaking in a low tone, I eyed him up and down. "I needed something more… substantial."

Arching my back in a cat-like stretch, I saw his eyes flash over. That sent a hot jolt down my spine, and I could feel goosebumps rush over the skin on my bare shoulders. Nothing screamed "fuck me on the couch" like a tank top and boy shorts, and I was sporting both of them fantastically. Full thighs were a curse to me in high school, but a blessing in the world of adult sex, where wide swaying hips almost unanimously brought full grown men to their knees.

I crossed my outstretched legs, feeling a coil of anticipation sitting in me as he reached the end of the couch, eyes burning over my exposed skin. Leaning down, he rested a hand against the arm of the couch, cornering me in with his other arm pressing into the back cushion above me. I instinctively shrunk back, but immediately fought against it and inclined towards him with a barely concealed lascivious look.

Biting his lower lip as it pulled into a taunting smile, his lids half lowered in a contemptuous gaze. "I have to admit, I'm a bit… _perplexed_ by this newfound reception."

Pausing, I furrowed my eyebrows in thought. That wasn't how these dreams normally played out. Mulling over his statement, I blankly stared at him for a moment before shifting into an upright position.

"It doesn't matter, you're not even-_UGH!_"

As I sat up, I bumped into his arm. I could feel the warmth of his skin, it felt so real. Eyes widening, I reached out without a second thought and put a palm flat against his chest. The fabric was soft, and cool to the touch. Underneath, solid form and a heartbeat thumped against my hand.

Oh my God, _this wasn't a fucking dream_.

"You're _here_?!" I hissed, grabbing the fabric of his shirt and forcefully trying to shove him back. Only managing to push him away by a fraction, he came back down with full force, grabbing my wrists and pinning them up on either side of my head against the couch. Lip curling into a sneer, he raised an eyebrow and spoke coldly.

"Oh, I most _certainly_ am. Obviously, you just joined the conversation."

"Fuck you," I shot icily, wriggling in his grip. "Seriously, there's no reason for you to be here. How the _hell_ did you get in?"

"This building is over a century old. Simply changing the locks won't suffice."

"Duly noted." I spat. "You're being ridiculous, I'm going to Arkham in the morning. I don't have a choice, and you already know that."

A gleefully deviant look spread across his face, which disheartened me. "Of course you are. And I suppose calling the district attorney's office played a role in your return to Arkham?"

My stomach immediately dropped, eyes widening, but saying nothing. Explaining was unnecessary, as he answered my question for me. "I warned you from the beginning to be mindful of who you asked for help." Looking me over, his lips pursed in mock consideration. "Now, what is the penalty for such continued misconduct?"

As if he were the right sort of person to administer punishment. I leaned my head back and glowered at him down my nose. "You know, threatening my life loses its leverage when you fail._ Twice_." I mocked, giving a sneer. "So what's it going to be, then? Three time's the charm?" Being snarky wasn't difficult for me anymore. It wouldn't make a difference if I chided him to kill me, or pleaded for my life. And I wasn't one to beg.

He spoke in a clear tone, edging closer as he leaned on a knee into the cushion, his leg brushing up against my thigh. "I've learned my lesson. Death is too merciful of a punishment for you."

"Oh, how _magnanimous_ of you." Scrunching my nose, I gave him what I hoped was the nastiest glare he had ever received in his life. "Too bad you weren't the one left to choke on a kitchen floor. Or nearly stabbed by some stranger in an alleyway!" Controlling my voice just below a shout to prevent waking up my family, I felt a pressure building within me, as if I were being held underwater.

My accusations were falling on deaf ears, clearly demonstrated as he gave a patronizing scoff. "Don't be so grieved." He said listlessly. "You're taking this too personally."

"Too personally?!" I hissed loudly, feeling the rage in me seeping out of my pores. "You're _ruining_ my livelihood!"

Finally, a scowl broke on his face. "And you're threatening _mine_. I do what is required. I offered you an alternative, and you rejected it. You could have swallowed your pride, accepted the payment, and nothing would've had to happen to you. The fault is yours alone."

I snapped, a renewed vigor surging through me as my hands struggled against his hold in an attempt to rip his face off. "Alone? _Alone?! Bullshit!_ I didn't kill those patients, don't you _dare_ try to _reason_ these things to me. Your sociopathic behavior trumps anything I ever did, which at it's worst merely annoyed you."

"Merely annoyed me?" Clenching my wrists tighter, he spoke slowly, voice heavy with resentment. "After _years_ of excessive research, novels of dissertations on analyses of the mind, attaining familiarity with all frailties of the human psyche, and securing the ability to invade and_ subdue_ the most agile mind to its most primitive…"

Leaning forward, he spoke against my cheek, which was warm and red from exertion. Now would be the opportune moment to turn and bite him, but I really didn't want to have to resort to defensive cannibalism.

"I had learned power in its most _penetrative_ and _irreversible_ form… and you assumed you could walk right in and interrupt my work."

I sucked in a shaking breath, my chest heaving against his. "I had to. You were hurting people."

A warm scoff blew into my hair. "Great advancements were never gifted with the luxury of being spared from sacrifice."

"… You're _psychotic_."

Without warning, he shifted both my wrists into one hand and used his free palm to cup my cheek, his smile growing as I flinched and stiffened at his touch. Shivers ran over my body again, and I desperately hoped it was too dark to see my nipples perking under my thin top. "Possibly. But I am not nearly as inept as you consistently misjudge me to be. I know you don't plan on returning to Arkham."

Refusing to meet his penetrating look, I swallowed hard. "Is that why you're here? 'Damage control'?"

Those fingers never broke contact, curving around the shell of my ear and running across my jaw line. My eyes fluttered, and I could feel a warmth growing deep inside me. Never had someone riled me up so badly with mere touches. Then again, I had never detested someone so quickly either.

"In a manner of speaking."

I met his unwavering stare, jerking my head away to stop his ministrations. "I'm not going to let you confine me in some white walled cell in Arkham."

His hand traveled down my neck and across my collarbone, drifting back and forth slowly. My eyes screwed shut, preventing him from seeing them roll back in ecstasy. Coaxing me gently, his words soothed and vexed me. "Confinement is not as dreary as you assume it to be. It releases the burden of control. It teaches you the privilege of submission."

Forcing my words out, I squirmed against him uncomfortably. "I really don't understand why you're doing this, I think it's safe to say we've sufficiently aggravated the shit out of each other."

He spoke in a supposing tone, voice light with inflection. "Perhaps I've developed a taste for turmoil. It's been ages since I was last occupied by such an intense state of provocation…"

Drawing tantalizingly slow circles across my skin with his index finger, he dipped down towards the tops of my breasts, then back up to my collarbone. My eyes fluttered. I had to suppress the shudders of arousal flooding through me. Every shift and move against my body was painfully stirring, and I absolutely hated that all he did was open his goddamn fucking mouth.

"... and you've made the grave mistake of occupying my mind too long."

Panting heavily, I opened my eyes to see him just inches away. Slight stubble darkened his jaw line, emphasizing those high cheekbones of his that I had constantly imagined nuzzling against my thighs. Behind his glasses, reflecting the light through the window, azure eyes seared mercilessly. I couldn't help but hate to notice the freckles spattered across his face, which might've been endearing, if he didn't inspire such awful feelings in me.

"You're here for something else." I surmised, relaxing the tension in my arms. "This isn't just some check-up, is it?"

In response to my slackening struggle, he let my arms fall to my sides, where they burned and ached from effort. I sucked in a sharp breath as a hand rested itself against my hip, his thumb curving just under the elastic of my shorts. "I've come to make a final offer, but this time," sliding his thumb along the waistband, he spoke with an undertone I hadn't heard from him before. "You will be imparting something to _me_."

"What do you want?" My breath hitched in my voice as his finger skimmed back across the waistband, dipping a fraction lower. Involuntarily, my hips bucked, and I heard him let out a hiss from between his teeth. Good to know I wasn't the only one suffering. Taking a handful of my hair and pulling my head back against the couch, he began his list of demands against the nape of my neck.

"I want every dark corner of your mind that grows like a shadow cast on a dimming day, when you let yourself rest a moment too long in silence. Every slick, rousing image you let slip into bed with you at night…"

Without warning, his roaming hand traveled upward to my right breast and pinched my nipple through the thin fabric of the shirt. It sent waves ricocheting through my body, and I involuntarily let out a gasping moan.

"Every instance in your life, when repulsion and horror haunted you to the point of madness. I know it's all there, locked away inside. Even from you."

I wanted him to take me, right there on the couch. And I knew from the edge of tension in his voice that he was waiting for the word, a sign, anything that told him he could throw me down and have it all. "You're tired of escaping yourself, _Matryoshka_. Let it fall, and let me claim you. Give me the adrenaline in your blood, when your pulse quickens. Surrender the screams that I know are trapped inside."

There was absolutely no way that torture and ecstasy could lay so perfectly in a person. Somewhere, there lied a duality in Jonathan Crane, and I couldn't see it, but it was there. The raw malice in his eyes terrified me no less than his perfectly controlled, meticulous touches.

"Submit to me. And you will be bereft of want from anything."

The accuracy in his words were agonizingly true, but his insight wasn't drawn from an in depth analysis. It was familiarity. That thought made me instantly recoil, and worked the opposite to what he was trying to accomplish. Placing an open palm flat against his chest, I pushed him back to see his face, and trailed my hand down towards his belt, hooking a finger in one of the loops. I saw a twinge in his neck, knowing he could boil over from under the surface at any moment.

"You think we come from the same ether, don't you?"

His knowing eyes burned brightly, lips curling into a satisfied smirk. Parting my lips slowly, I mirrored his look with an added degree of contempt. "Let me clarify something." I said slowly, grabbing his collar and pulling him down towards me. With my free hand, I drew a finger across his cheek, ghosting over the scratch I made a couple of nights ago.

"There is _nothing_ of you in me. Whatever conclusions you think you've come to, they're wrong. _Sorely_."

This didn't dissuade him. The hand on my breast moved to my side, tightening its grip. "A blatant lie, and you know it."

A snarl broke out on my face, and I shoved him hard enough to break contact. Scooting to the edge of the couch, I smoothed my rumpled clothes and spoke in an even and hard tone. "Get. Out. I'm washing my hands of you."

He didn't budge, merely raising an eyebrow curiously. Obviously, I was going to have to spell it out for him plainly. "I'm leaving Gotham, whether you want it or not. It's best for me, for my family… and for you."

"I assume this means you forfeit all further investigation."

Scoffing, I ran a hand through my mussed hair and sneered. "What else can I fucking do? The evidence is gone, everyone's on your side, you won. Okay?" Bending down, I picked up the blanket off from the floor and placed it around my shoulders, a woolen buffer to my exposed skin. "Go ahead and indulge yourself in the power that you presume to posses, but just know that there's always someone who will come and overthrow you."

Standing up, he adjusted his shirt and inclined his head towards me with a dead pan stare. "Is that a threat?"

"No," I breathed. "It's a guarantee."

We stared at each other for a moment, an odd mix of emotions lingering in the air. I turned away first, breaking whatever spell we had between us. Walking to the chapel door, I opened it slowly and directed him to follow me with a jerk of my head.

"You have to go."

A shrug seamlessly rolled off his shoulders, and he casually followed. At the front entrance, I looked around quietly before unlatching the bolt lock and letting him pass around me to the elongated porch entrance outside. As he turned to look at me again, I saw nothing in his facade that gave away any thoughts or emotions. It was truly eerie, how he could do that.

"I still hate your fucking guts." I said flatly. That broke a small grin on his face. "A wise decision." He answered, adjusting his glasses. Pausing, I mulled over whether I should say what was on my mind between leaving his physical embrace and now. I decided to let it out, as it was the last time I'd see him anyways. Scratching my head, I spoke hesitantly.

"Honestly, I… really do wish you were someone else."

I didn't look at his face, not wanting to see him with that nasty glare he was really good at delivering. However, what he said instead stumped me.

"As do I."

When I looked up, shock scrawled on my face, I merely saw his retreating back to me, walking away with straight posture at a languid pace. All signs of confidence and self assuredness. I knew better than to pity the truth. Perhaps he understood my pain, but I didn't understand his ruthlessness. This time when I closed the door, I used the latch with the chain at the top.

* * *

"Will you call us when you get there?"

Zipping up my jacket, I gave my distraught mother a pitying look and smiled. I couldn't blame her worry, this was the first time I ever left Gotham for more than a couple weeks, and we still hadn't planned on when I might come back. Giving her a hug, I spoke into her bed tangled hair.

"I'll call you at the first gas stop." Pecking a kiss on her cheek, I stood back and looked to Sam, who had an angry look with tears in his eyes. I pulled an exaggerated ugly face, which didn't seem to help.

"Freddie, _stop_. This isn't funny."

"You're just mad because you have to stay here while I'm going on vacation." I mocked, jabbing him in the side with a finger. Despite being a complete lie, I desperately felt the need to dissuade the tension. Wiping at his eyes, he smacked my hand away. I grabbed his shoulders and pulled him down, planting a fat kiss on his forehead and turning to Roger with a pleading look.

"Make sure he doesn't suck the fun out of everything, please."

Roger put a hand over his mouth, suppressing a laugh. Sam ignored the jab and sniffed loudly. "Just, be safe."

I nodded with a smug smile, turning to the open door where my father was waiting. In a white t-shirt and pajama pants, sleep was no longer heavy in his eyes, but his shoulders were weighed down with too many concerns. My head lowered a bit as I approached him, tightening the grip on my backpack.

"Sorry. For everything."

He shook his head, speaking in a tight voice. "Don't be, I'm proud of you. What you did was incredibly stupid, but I'm proud of you."

"Even though absolutely nothing was accomplished?" I felt my eyes brim with tears, but I smiled anyways. He put a hand to my face, wiping a stray tear. "Well... things don't always work out the way that they should, do they?" He supposed lightly, returning a small smile.

"Words of the wise." I mocked, wiping at my slightly drippy nose. Ruffling a hand in my hair, he pulled me into an embrace tight enough to make me wheeze. With a kiss on my forehead, he pushed me out the door. Nearly stumbling, I turned to everyone and shot one last wretched smile. I heard my mother choke out a sob, hiding behind my father's large frame as I made my way to the white truck humming in the large driveway.

"You ready?" Uncle Ernel asked with a gruff laugh as I threw my bag in and climbed inside. Scrubbing the sleep and grief off my face, I turned to him and mustered the happiest look I could manage. He nodded once, putting the truck into drive and stepping on the gas. We took off before I even properly closed the door shut, and I had to turn in my seat to see the funeral home, and my childhood, shrink off into the starry night.

I could only hope that things got better from here on out.

* * *

Disclaimer: Nolanverse and DC characters/settings are not mine. Don't worry dear reader, this is only the intermission. These chapters seem to be getting longer as time goes on, don't they?


	10. chapter o9

It was a cloudy day outside in early October, and I was sipping on a peach iced tea while my lunch date, Suyin, agitatedly flipped back and forth through the menu. Smacking down the floppy laminated page, she gave me a curious look. I pretended to not notice, as this usually meant she was going to ask me something ridiculous about my work. It didn't dissuade her.

"So, is it true that when men die, they sometimes get…" She looked around, whispering the word under her breath. "… boners?"

Immediately choking on my drink, I spat out the straw and coughed violently. "Dude, _seriously_?"

"How do you get rid of it?" Taking the straw out of her drink, she bent it over between her fingers and creased the thin plastic demonstratively. "Do you like, 'break it'?"

"What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?!"

"You're not telling me what happens!"

"You tape it down and hope for the best, that's what happens, okay?!" Eyeing the couple seated a table away, I lifted my menu up in front of my face to block out her horrified expression. "Just tell me what's going on with you at school." I whispered loudly, hoping to distract her from any other embarrassing public conversation.

This was my newfound form of socializing.

We had met roughly a month ago when she had overheard me arguing on my phone outside of a café, fighting my penny-pinching boss Mr. Wenston over pay for a particularly lengthy and difficult case I had worked on for him. Instead of immediately vacating the area, as most competent people would do, she followed me to my car and insisted she get my number, as she was writing a college paper for her Thanatology class. A Chinese-Jamaican student majoring in Psychology with a minor in Criminal Justice, Suyin was an intern at a nearby correctional facility. She was incredibly perky, could seamlessly slip between Cantonese and Patois when arguing with her mother on the phone, and had an insatiable obsession with serial killers.

Smiling widely, she thumped her hand against the table as she spoke, exuding self-confidence. "I finished my research paper on the roots of antisocial personalities."

As if I knew what that meant.

"Antisocial? What, like sitting in your room on your laptop all day because you hate people?" I asked, looking over my menu and giving a sly smile as I slanted my eyes knowingly.

"Ha ha, _no_," shooting me a sharp look, her smile bared her teeth. "It's when someone lacks the ability to care about people's feelings, or the law. Usually really violent, impulsive, they just do whatever they want. Cold, ruthless monsters."

Before I could even register it, a flash of someone who I often tried to quell in my mind came forth, revived by the accurate descriptions of 'cold' and 'ruthless'. I quickly snuffed out the thought, taking another sip of tea.

"Some of them are born like that, you know." She continued nonchalantly, unaware of the blood quickly draining from my face. "Neurotransmission problems, or underdeveloped parts of the brain."

"Huh," I raised my eyebrows, striving to look as neutral as possible. If there was any genetic cause that resulted in my reason for leaving Gotham becoming a 'cold, ruthless monster', I severely doubted it involved any cerebral underdevelopment.

As our waiter came by and dropped off our salads, I couldn't help but feel a bit nauseous. She, however, apparently worked up an appetite from talking about postmortem boners and emotionless cutthroats. Stuffing her mouth with heavily dressed lettuce, she spoke avidly in between bites.

"There's also theories that you can develop into someone like that. Like, through Attachment Disorder."

I forked an olive, lifting my eyes to her vibrant expression. "_What_ disorder?"

She rolled her eyes and sighed in an exasperated manner. For someone who used so many obscure terms, she hated explaining things. "It's when someone doesn't get a lot of affection early in life, screws up their psychological health and sometimes even worse. Like in the late eighties, when the United Nations discovered overcrowded orphanages in Romania. Thousands of babies were emotionally neglected and just died from never being held."

"Oh my _God_," I put a hand over my mouth, which had dropped open in horror. Casually picking out a cherry tomato, she shrugged and popped it in her mouth.

"That's not even the worst part, some of the ones that survived were really screwed up in the head."

It was official, I hadn't even started eating, and I had lost my appetite. Pushing the lettuce around on my plate, I did my best to look like I was distracted by the television perched in the upper corner of the room, instead of fighting a wave of unwanted nostalgia. Screwed up was a mere euphemism for the maelström of a man I left in Gotham.

"The majority of people who do awful things... they're just misunderstood, you know?" Tilting her head, Suyin shot me an imploring look to agree. I was obviously thinking otherwise.

_Wrong. Wrong. You are so awfully wrong. _"Are you becoming one of those serial killer groupies?" I asked in an accusatory tone, raising an eyebrow. Eyes widening, she shook her head vehemently.

"No, God, I'm not that tacky."

_Mhmm._

Taking a sip of water, she held the glass to her face and drew circles in the condensation on the clouded surface. "There's just some things that people need to educate themselves on, become aware of. Nothing is black and white, you know? Every person's behavior is a cumulative result of nature and nurture, hand in hand."

That was something I could acknowledge. Thoughtlessly nodding in agreement, I simply mumbled back her words. "Sure. Nature and nurture."

* * *

To say it in the nicest way possible, Carthage was a stagnant purgatory. It was inhabited by merely half a million people, most of whom lived in the suburbs and awkwardly tried to smile when eye contact was accidentally met. The baristas learned names and asked personal questions if I stopped at the same place for coffee more than twice a week. Buses that ran the transit system in and around the city were scarce and rarely on time. And there were far too many trees.

In my first week, I quickly came to learn that Carthage pizza was just not the same as any regular Gotham joint, and it was even worse when I found out the same crappy pizza place closed after ten at night. Every night for the first month, I cried myself to sleep. I wasn't going to lie to myself that I didn't miss my family horribly. I really did.

It wasn't long till I began to wonder if I had made a huge mistake in choosing Carthage as my sanctuary. There was one glimmer of hope, though. In spite of all my complaints, I slept like a baby every night. And it made a world of difference.

As the weeks passed by, I started doing things I'd never done before. Due to the low crime rate, I began jogging outdoors in the evening. On Wednesday nights, I took a pottery class with my Aunt Carol, at her insistence. The biggest thorn in my side that I hadn't adjusted to yet, was my new job.

As much as it pained me, I didn't have the heart to tell my father that his longtime friend, Marc Wenston of Wenston & Son's Funeral Home, was a tightwad and a crook. I knew he overcharged families when they came to the funeral home in nice cars, and I had to sometimes pay out of my pocket for enough chemicals to avoid under-embalming bodies. It was the kind of place that gave the funeral industry a bad name. I had yet to start looking elsewhere.

Truthfully, as the days passed, I started to not really care about anything. Aside from lunch dates with Suyin, and sitting on a pottery wheel while middle-aged women gossiped incessantly, I was fading into a constant daze. Phone calls from home were becoming less frequent, and this week no one had called at all.

My father's birthday was in two days. I had already envisioned the private ceremony, a small cake on the dinner table surrounded by Sam, Roger, and my mother, with the turquoise glazed bowl I sent to them last month sitting in my place. With time, maybe they would name it Freddie, and start bringing it to family portrait photo shoots.

I was thinking crazy things. Maybe I was just becoming depressed.

It was only seven at night, and I laid in bed, cooped up in my small studio on the side of my aunt and uncle's house. It was rather bare, minus my work clothes in the closet, and a radio clock on the dresser beside my bed. I never bought anything for decoration, anticipating for the right time to go back to Gotham. I was becoming less sure of when that day would even come.

That wasn't even rock bottom of my solitude. Some nights I stayed in bed, sneaking the classical music station on the clock radio and recalling within myself how fast my pulse raced those months ago.

It was becoming harder to remember. And I knew it was because I was forgetting how to live in fear. Fear of living in a city too immense to avert its inner structure from systemically rotting into shambles. Fear of a man who relished in agony and desired possession. Placated by a slow life, I was becoming dull and listless. A coal removed from the fire, cooling into a mere chunk of soot. Slowly, I began to understand the reason for every writer's turn to the bottle, every laborer's nightly relapse to the opium den.

In our vices, we found solace and clarity. In those instances when Rachmaninov played, I would close my eyes and go to those places I had so adamantly refused to relinquish.

* * *

Dusk was fast approaching as I jogged my way around a city block, avoiding the curb and outdoor restaurant tables. The drier climate of Carthage, as it was a landlocked city, was kind to my now shorter curls, bouncing around in a bob and framing my face quite nicely as I ran slowly between pedestrians. Even after five months, it was still disturbing to me, how much free space there was to move around on the sidewalks.

As I turned a corner, my phone suddenly blared from my sports bra, forcing me to stop my pace and quickly pull it out as an elderly woman and her miniature pinscher passed by. Taking in large pants of air, I gasped into the phone. "... Yes?"

_"Hey, are you coming with me to class tonight?"_ It was my aunt, and she sounded unusually excited. Huffing out, I leaned slightly forward and stretched my calves.

"Yeah, um... give me fifteen minutes."

_"Alright, cool."_ She simply replied, hanging up. Quickly, I stuffed the phone back into my bra. Wiping my brow and turning around, I headed back in the direction of my aunt and uncle's house.

It was Wednesday night at the warehouse again, and while I unwrapped my saved portion of grayish clay, I looked across the room to see tonight's instructor, Hugh.

Sporting permanently disheveled brown hair, green eyes, and a carefully maintained five o' clock shadow, Hugh was a blessed man in the genes department. As the class consisted of mostly women in their early forties to late sixties, the majority of those in attendance were infatuated with him and his cute boyish looks, as well as his large, beautiful hands. Surgeon's hands, he called them, and they were. At least in training, as he was a med student studying to become a heart surgeon.

He caught me looking, and shot a shy grin in my direction. I pretended I didn't notice, shooting my glance upward to the ceiling, as if there was something extremely interesting with the light fixtures. A semi-decent deflection. I could've gotten a bronze metal for that.

Outside of Suyin's aggressive insistence to form a friendship, I had managed to avoid most outside interaction while I stayed in Carthage. The more connections, the harder it would be to return to Gotham, and nowadays it was the only thing I ever thought about.

Horribly though, I began to suppose that maybe I wasn't supposed to return. Perhaps this was what I deserved, a mind numbing life in penance for my past transgressions, and what happened those months ago was only the spark of a slow burning fuse. If only I hadn't been so reckless...

"Freddie?"

"Uh?" Snapping out of my derailed train of thought, I focused in on Hugh standing in front of me, clasping a bowl full of water. A smile pulled at my lips defensively, which he perfectly mirrored.

"Are you free forming tonight, or using the wheel?"

"The wheel," I answered quickly, looking to the stool farthest away from his desk. He nodded, the edges of his lips faltering a bit.

"Okay, well, just be sure to ask me if you need help with anything."

"Sure." Smiling gently, I turned away and walked towards the corner of the room. As I pressed the clay down and dipped my hands into the bowl of water nearby, my mind began to wander.

Tomorrow was my father's birthday. Should I call him tonight, or wait till the morning? I wasn't sure if reminding him I was roughly four hundred miles away was such a good idea. My foot pressed on the electric pedal, and the round top began to spin. Sticking a thumb in the mound of clay, I began to carve a hole as the wheel spun faster.

I wanted to see my family. I wanted to live again. I craved the smell of rain on pavement, the echoes of police sirens, the anonymity in the crowds. Substantially unhealthy as it was, Gotham was my calling, and I would take her on any bad day over this sedated agony.

The wheel started spinning too quickly, my foot pushing down too hard. Without notice, the clay in my hands folded over into a formless mess. As I stopped, I turned to see Hugh standing beside me, unnoticed, with a patronizing grin. I said nothing as he pulled up a stool, sitting across from me in front of the potter's wheel. His hunter's green shirt matched his eyes perfectly, and the thin fabric conformed to his toned, muscular body. I stared at his broad shoulders a little too long as he scraped the clay up and molded it in his hands.

"Playing it rough, huh?" He joked lightly. Feebly shrugging, I felt my ears turn red. He bit his lip playfully, firmly smacking the lump on the wheel, and gesturing for me to put my hands on the clay. I did so, feeling slightly foolish.

"Step on the pedal, lightly." Hugh coaxed, the hum of the mechanism buzzing in the air as I pressed down. Leaning forward, he spoke in a calm and concise manner.

"You have to be gentle, or else it'll collapse. Like this."

Clasping his hands over mine, he pressed my thumbs into the clay with his own, slowly widening the gap in the center as the wheel spun slowly. I pressed my foot against the pedal to make it go faster, and he spoke with a hitch in his voice.

"No, too fast, it won't be even."

The beginnings of a small bowl were already uneven, one side thicker than the other, while the other side began to flop over. I knew this wasn't my doing, though. His usually steady hands were shaking.

Feeling heat rise in my cheeks, I looked to him and saw he was staring straight at me. Without hesitation, I took my foot off the pedal and the wheel slowed to a stop.

"Are you okay?" Hugh asked, his voice cracking slightly. Looking away, I nodded without saying anything. I quickly stood up, speaking without meeting his gaze.

"I'm... gonna go wash my hands." I excused myself, rubbing the remnants of wet clay between my fingers. "Sure," He agreed, lips pressing into a thin line.

I didn't return to the wheel. For the rest of the session, I sat outside and looked over my shoulder whenever a shadow passed by the entrance door. Maybe it seemed blatantly rude, but I couldn't help but feel uncomfortable in the way Hugh looked at me. Charmed, curious, and timid. Naive. Like he was looking at the wrapping paper of a package, ignoring the ticking sound of a bomb inside.

He didn't know the convoluted mess he was trying to pry into, despite all the signs I threw at him. I couldn't blame him, almost no one knew.

Almost.

Nervously, I checked my phone for the time, which told me it was nearly eight and the class was almost over. Standing up off the sidewalk curb, I patted down the dust off my jeans and went back inside.

As soon as I came through the door, Hugh walked into view with a perfectly sculpted cup, handle attached and all. He held it out to me, smiling with renewed vigor. "I made it for you, so you could have something to put in the kiln with everyone next week."

"Oh... thank you." Shyly, I took it from him and palmed it gently. He cleared his throat, shifting his footing and speaking in a lower pitch.

"You know, Freddie, I was thinking that maybe, if you were up to it-"

My fingers made indentations in the clay as he spoke, heart dropping. _Please, don't finish that sentence._

"-there's a new exhibition at the museum, and it has Egyptian mummies, and it's kind of what you do, right?" Searching my face eagerly, he saw the alarmed expression in my face and decided to change pace. "Or, if you want, we could just go somewhere nice."

I couldn't 'go somewhere nice'. I imagined myself holding hands with him as we walked downtown, smiling coyly, stuffing myself away inside. Maybe I would agree to see him again the next week, and maybe that next week would become a month, and before I knew it, I would be living in the suburbs, working at the same shitty ass funeral home, and-

The cup fell from my hands, hitting the ground with a wet thud.

"I can't." I choked out, feeling my stomach drop as his eyebrows raised in the slightest of fractions. To his credit, he broke a small smile and ran a hand through his hair, tongue poking playfully between straight teeth.

"Aw, that's okay. Maybe another time, then."

Sucking in my lower lip nervously, I looked down at the squished mess of grey on the concrete floor. He bent down and scooped up as much as possible, handing it back to me.

"Sorry." I said quietly, casting my eyes to the ground.

"Don't be." He spoke in a quiet tone. "I'm sure he's a great guy."

Snapping my eyes upward to meet his gaze, I felt my cheeks flush. "N-no, there isn't anyone..."

"Sure there isn't." Giving a wink, he stepped back and inclined his head before turning and walking away. I felt a rise of anger flare within me. Not from his suggestion, but from my half-hearted protest.

I wasn't lying. I wasn't.

* * *

As I sat in the car, thinking of too many things while my aunt drove, she briefly turned to me with a wicked smile. I already had an idea of what she was going to address.

"So, I saw Hugh talking to you before we left."

"Yeah." I simply replied, clasping my hands together and staring out the window. She wasn't dissuaded by my obvious discomfort.

"He's a very nice boy, and very cute too."

Straining a grin, I bit my lip in false consideration. After a long pause of silence, she merely shook her head, snorting a laugh.

"Yeah, I know... not your type, I guess. Luckily for you, I don't think you'll have to worry about him anymore."

"Why?" I looked to her curiously, unsure of what she meant by that. As she turned the corner just before reaching the house, she lifted a finger in the direction of the street. I followed her indication, sucking in a sharp breath.

There was a two-door silver car parked parallel on the curb. I knew that car. As soon as she parked, I unbuckled myself agitatedly and hauled myself out the door. Bursting into a full run, my hands fumbled for the key on the lanyard around my neck. As I stumbled up the stoop and tried to unlock the door with shaking hands, someone opened it for me from the inside. I looked up and stared into large, taupe eyes and a freckled nose.

"Sam!" Without thinking, I flung my arms around him. He made a gasping noise, sputtering by my ear.

"Freddie, you're covered in clay!"

"Shit, sorry." Stepping back, I smiled stupidly as he slapped a hand to his neck, wiping it with a refrained look of disgust. Clearing my throat, I looked around, but only saw my Uncle Ernel sitting on the couch, smiling like a buffoon. As my aunt came inside and closed the door, I turned to Sam.

"What are you doing here?"

Wiping his hand on his shirt, he looked to me with an easy grin. "I'm taking you home."

I blanched. "What?"

Sam shook his head, sighing. "Come back, Freddie. We've been getting swamped, and the intern Dad hired isn't getting any better with time."

Turning to my aunt, I bit my lip nervously. "Did you do this?"

Shrugging, she turned to my uncle with a knowing look, then back to me. "Kind of, we talked about it with Sam. It's time for you to go back." Putting a hand on her hip, her lips pinched into a semi-sour expression. "Depression isn't hard to notice when someone stays in bed the entire weekend. Or rejects hot surgeons."

"I just like to sleep." I defended myself half-heartedly. Uncle Ernel pushed himself off the couch and walked over to me, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "Don't worry, this isn't insulting one bit. We know you're lowering your standards, choosing Gotham over us."

I knocked his hand off my shoulder, shooting a fake scowl. "Well, what about my things? I can't pack all of it right _now_."

Scoffing, he crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. "What, half a dresser full of clothes and a pottery collection? We'll throw it in a box and send it to you."

There were plenty of things I wanted to say, to convince myself that it was better to stay here. It was safe, and it was quiet...

But it was suffocating.

Tilting his head down, my uncle eyed me over his spectacles. "It's been fun, Freddie. But it's time for you to go home."

_Home._ I looked to Sam eagerly, unable to control the smile on my face.

I was going home.

* * *

Roughly five minutes after we had started on the road, Sam briefly glanced to me with a wicked smile. I straightened, trying to figure out his look. He let it out before I could even ask.

"Carmine Falcone got arrested last week."

I relaxed back against the seat. "What? No way, that's insane."

"No, what's insane is that they found him on a rooftop, tied to a searchlight like bondage role play gone horribly wrong."

I snorted a laugh, shaking my head and speaking in a false tone of regret. "Jeez, what a shame, I thought people really liked him."

"Well, if you think that's crazy," He bit his lip, obviously trying not to laugh. Leaning forward, I furrowed my brows in question.

"…What?"

"I also saw Bruce Wayne two days ago."

"What, like in person?" I wriggled around and nearly squeaked as I berated him. "Get the fuck out of here."

He nodded, obviously trying to suppress a smile. I indulged him. "And how did Zombie Boy look up close?"

Zombie Boy, as Sam and I affectionately called Wayne after his miraculous return from the presumed dead, was a tabloid favorite of ours. "Zombie Boy," he glanced to me, giving a leer, "is just as gorgeous up close."

I smacked his arm, gasping loudly. "I'm going to tell Roger, shame on you."

"Roger's no angel, I've caught him staring at those cheap magazines in the grocery store."

Biting my lip and raising my eyebrows playfully, I lifted a hand and wriggled my empty ring finger. "So... have you set a date yet?"

Looking down at his own hand, he flexed his finger to let the gold glint in the dim light from the street lamps. "Roger's thinking about a spring ceremony. I'd like June."

I mockingly blew a raspberry in disapproval. "Good luck, so would everyone else."

"Well, I've never done this before, I don't know anything about weddings." He sighed, looking straight out on the road. Curling up in my seat, I saw a sign pass by that said Gotham was four hundred and ten miles ahead. We were in for a long haul.

"Why didn't Dad come with you?"

Pursing his lips at my question, Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Well, it's Dad's birthday tomorrow, so I was thinking that I'd tell him and Mom to come over dinner, and you could surprise them."

Surprise them. I couldn't help but be a bit stunned by this little trick Sam was playing. "So... they don't know I'm coming back?"

"Nope." He said simply, popping the syllable at the end. Unexpectedly, I let out a laugh, excitement running through me at the thought of seeing my parents, stumped in shock at my reappearance. My mother was going to be a weep fest for sure, and my father would probably do that thing where he stood stiff as a statue and cried like a proud coach winning the championship. Sometimes his over masculine mannerisms were just hilarious. Sighing, I wiped a tear of mirth from my eye.

"Nice. So..." Slowly tapping the arm of my chair, I decided to change the subject in a steady manner as possible. "Anything from Arkham?"

Sam shook his head, pushing his bottom lip out in a disregarding expression.

"Not a peep. Just average old farts with weak hearts and diabetes."

"Huh." Nodding solemnly, I looked out the window. After a solid ten minutes without conversation, I settled into my seat, closing my eyes to the sound of Simon & Garfunkel on the radio, gently singing away with the soft twangs of acoustic guitar.

* * *

When I opened my eyes again, we passed a sign indicating that Gotham was now thirty miles away. Without warning, an idea intruded into my head as my consciousness began to rouse from sleep.

"I need to go to my apartment first." I suddenly blurted, turning to see Sam's now exhausted expression. A grim look of confusion etched into his face. "But, you said you couldn't go back there." He protested, slowly blinking his glazed eyes. I looked at the clock, which said it was one in the morning.

This was rude of me to ask, after all he'd done. But if I didn't get priorities straightened out, coming back to Gotham could possibly be in vain. Squirming, I started thinking of a way to convince him. "Well, not then, but I need to. Now. I have to make sure everything's okay."

Nose crinkling in annoyance, he let out a scoff. "What do you mean,_ 'make sure everything's okay'_?"

I had to figure out a way to say it without saying it. The only way I could really come back was if the dust had settled, if this clash with Jonathan Crane was truly over.

And there was only one way to know for sure.

"You know... my furniture, and stuff."

Sam sighed heavily, rubbing an eye. "Can it wait till tomorrow? This drive is no joke, I'm really tired, Freddie."

"Drop me off." I insisted. He sucked in a breath through his teeth sharply.

"I can't do that."

"No, seriously. I promise, it'll be okay." I turned to him with a pleading look, trying my best to look as pathetic as possible. "Arkham's just old farts with weak hearts now, right?" Begging him into exhaustion seemed to be the only way.

"Freddie, I..." Clenching his jaw and closing his eyes briefly, the car wobbled a bit off the road, then readjusted. He bit out his surrender. "_Fine_, but you have to stay inside, no matter what. And I'll be calling you at seven in the morning to make sure you're okay."

Every muscle in my face convulsed between my conflicting emotions of relief and terror. "Yeah, okay, sure." Pausing in thought, I felt rather stupid having to ask for his spare. "You still have the old key, right?"

He simply nodded. When we approached the entrance to the apartment building, he parked right in front by the curb. Taking out his wallet, he opened the side pouch and pulled out the key with two fingers. I reached for it, and he pulled back, giving me a warning look.

"If you don't answer that call in the morning, I'm sending the police."

I nodded eagerly, taking the key. "You got it."

_Please let this be the right decision._

* * *

My hands were freezing and sweaty as I made my way to the elevator. Before I could even enter my apartment, there was one place I had to stop first.

The logical side of me berated myself mercilessly for not asking Sam to wait outside by the entrance. But I know he would've caught wind of something funny going on. If worse came to worst, I could just run and hide under a bridge. Dig a hole and hide under fallen leaves like a python until daylight broke. I shook my head violently, feeling like a lunatic.

The elevator doors opened, and I nervously walked out onto the nineteenth floor.

1909 was a stress inducing number for me. My heart thumped loudly as I saw it in view down the corridor, stomach muscles tightening and my lips drying out like the Sahara. My pace considerably slowed until numbly, I stood in front of the door. A sluggish minute passed before I formed a fist and lifted a trembling hand.

Better now than later. Feebly, I knocked three times.

In the first ten seconds, I thought of running, but I wasn't sure how that would look to him, seeing my retreating form cowardly hurrying down the hall. Ten seconds became twenty, and then thirty. After a good minute or two, I braced myself and knocked a little louder this time.

Nothing.

Well. I guess this could be saved for another night.

Taking a step back, I bumped right into something stiff. As this rapidly registered in my mind, panic swirled down my spine and into my toes. A hand pressed firmly on my shoulder, while a low voice spoke against my ear.

"Welcome back."

* * *

Disclaimer: Nolanverse and DC characters/settings are not mine. Are we ready for round two?


End file.
